Two Hundred Hours
by nerdonthemove
Summary: John Cena gave his all in his match with The Rock. Unfortunately, he came just a little bit too short. Mind and heart shattered in the loss, who would step up to lift his spirits up?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story is, let's say, just for practice 'cause my writing skills are getting rusty lol. BTW, just to let you guys know, I based this one on kayfabe. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any angst at all 'cause Cena's loss was just a part of a story line. Enjoy!

**Warnings:** Contains angst, OOC-ness and dog-like Cena. And awful writing.

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><p>That match was everything for him. He had waited for a year, trained for months, showed up in Raw for weeks without stop to show to the world that he was not like <em>him<em>. He had absorbed every shot at him, comments, critiques, negative feedbacks and still, he kept on trying to stand on his own two feet, convincing himself that even if the people had turned their backs on him, he could still go on; he could still move on and the only way to prove himself was to face the man in the grandest stage of all time. That was the reason why he picked WrestleMania of all the live shows they had. Although in his heart, he was convinced that he was doing it for the fans, there was a little part of him that said it was all for the win. It was all to prove that he was better than _him_. That he was a better wrestler than _he_ is.

A year of trash-talking, verbal and - sometimes – physical confrontations, John's confidence was slowly gaining as the months passed. The Rock still did his promos via satellite – a thing that still ticks John's nerves off – while he worked his ass off every week. Despite the man's appearances as the day of the event came close, John still wasn't convinced at The Rock's efforts. The guy had been away for too long that he couldn't keep the fans jumping on their seats without citing some old catchphrase and stuff. That made it easy to catch The Rock off guard and make him choke every now and then. Besides, the man had been saying the same things for a while; it was already kind of getting boring as it went on.

Then he made his mistake. A little mistake that cost him the match he had been preparing for since The Rock had called him out – and that went way back a year and couple of months ago. Perhaps he shouldn't have tried mocking the guy when he saw him lying on the ring. His ridiculous imitation of The Rock's "People's Elbow" didn't just cost him that once in a lifetime match. He was also positive that it made all of The Rock's fans – and quite possibly some of his own ones – mad for insulting the man by using his own move on him.

No matter how much he tried suppressing a sigh, John finally let out a shuddering one and at the same time, his stomach did another somersault. Along with the whistle of the wind breezing through him, his ears echoed the chants of the audience, the shouts of discouragement that sometimes – well, most of the time, lately – got him pissed off. He might not show it to the universe, denying the fact that he really wanted to embrace the hate, but god help him, he _really wanted to_. He thought he could let everything in from his ear and out to the other, but he was human, too, and he could still _feel_. He may act numb but he still felt like crap. What did the people want him to do, anyway? He worked his fucking ass every week, filling in for the absence of The Rock's presence on the show, he gave them a chance to see his classic gimmick and rapped in his throwback jersey after so many years, and still, the disrespect he received every time he appeared on the show was overwhelming that he couldn't stop asking_. Am I not doing enough to please you people?_

Lowering his head down, John closed his eyes. Damn, he had never felt like shit before until now. Not only emotionally but physically, too. To those people who claim wrestling is fake, let them try getting attacked by a "Rock Bottom" without flinching an inch. He was a big ball of pain that even a light poke would actually make him cry out loud.

Suddenly, the entrance to the rooftop swung open, slightly louder than needed, and John turned his neck towards the door to see who it was. He personally picked the place for him to mope alone; who in the world would want to go up to the rooftop at two in the morning?

The rooftop had few, dim lights that was why it took a couple of seconds before John recognized the man coming from the door. Much to his surprise, he was staring at the silhouette of CM Punk as the man walked closer to him, wearing a hoodie jacket and a confused look on his face.

"Cena?" Punk asked tentatively. Seemed like he couldn't see John clearly either. "What are you doing up here?"

"Should be asking you the same thing," John replied, smiling slightly at the other man. "Everyone's asleep. What are you doing up so late?"

Punk placed both his hands on the ledge where John was sitting on then stared up at the bitter man. "For your information, I don't sleep. _I_ put people to sleep. And I'm not the only one who's awake. Dwayne's probably out on an after party. Also, you are up tonight."

Punk's claim made Cena chuckle for a bit before looking back at the night lights of Florida. "I stand corrected," he replied before taking a sip of his drink. On the corner of his eye, he could see Punk watching him but he was uncertain of the expression on his face. He tried his best to ignore it, though, and continued to act as if he did not care.

"You didn't answer my question, Cena."

Another chortle escaped John's lips when he heard what Punk said. Looked like he couldn't get this kid off his back tonight. When did he get so chatty anyway?

"I just wanted to be alone," John replied in a tone that said that the deal was over. After another drink, he gave a sideway glance at Punk then asked, "What about you?"

Seeing Punk's face clearly now, he could see that he wasn't buying the crap John was telling him. Well, the guy had been able to read him like a book anyway. Seemed like he was the only one who could, he got to admit.

He was expecting Punk not to answer the question when all of a sudden, the guy jumped to sit down on the ledge beside him and out of surprise, he gave him a lopsided smile. What was this kid up to now?

"I retained my belt, I celebrated, thought of taking the celebration up here then I changed my mind. You're sulking up here, aren't you?"

Saying all of that without a breath, John couldn't help but grin incredulously at Punk. And to think that this man didn't give a fuck about anyone other than himself. Shaking his head, he lowered his head down again. "Well, no shit, Sherlock."

He heard Punk let out an amused chuckle and somehow, it lightened up his mood. Well, ain't that a surprise. Grabbing a can beside him, John handed Punk a drink and grinned fully at him. "Here, take it."

Punk raised an eyebrow at him. "Cena, I don't drink beer."

"Don't worry too much. It's root beer."

With that answer, Punk laughed and grabbed the can from John's hand. And then, silence fell. Punk gulped his drink then stared at the sky, John kept his head low and stared at his two feet dangling in the air. It went on for minutes and for some, this silence may be awkward, but for John, it was comforting. Earlier in the locker room, most of his close friends gave him a sad, uncomfortable smile, telling him that he did his best, treating him like the most pitiful man alive. That was why he wanted to be alone tonight. At least he wouldn't be able to see the faces of the people he had let down.

"You know," Punk started and John held his breath. There was no doubt the guy was going to talk about feeling sorry for his defeat against The Rock; why would he even speak, anyway? So John braced himself until Punk continued with a laugh. "That was the silliest imitation of the People's Elbow I've ever seen."

John snorted out loud and ended up laughing heartily without even knowing why. Even Punk was chuckling beside him as he continued, "Seriously, dude, you were flailing your arms back and forth like you were dancing or something. Miz did it far better than you did, I swear."

Throwing his head back from too much laughter, John held his stomach and let out a wheezing sound just to stop himself for a while, although he was still sniggering every now and then. Shaking his head, he tried catching his breath then sighed, this time, smiling wholeheartedly. "That was the most regretful decision I have ever done."

"Really, man. You should be regretful. You looked goofy, with that smile on your face while you moved your arms. It was like you didn't know what you were doing."

John snorted again then moved his eyes towards Punk. "No, not that one. On a serious note, I shouldn't have tried doing a People's Elbow. I lost the match 'cause of it. And I'll be getting the worst boos from the crowd later on RAW, I bet."

And that was what John was dreading for. For once in his life, he was afraid to face the fans. He was humiliated of himself. What happened in the match earlier was an embarrassment; a bitch-slap to his cocky, arrogant face. He hated this uneasy feeling. Why did he have to suffer this ordeal for so long? Why him?

"Screw the crowd," Punk blurted out all of a sudden. "Screw the match. It's all fucking over, man. You lost, so what? You did your best, John. You were just caught off guard. You didn't lose 'cause you couldn't fight back. And fuck the crowd for not giving you the credit you deserve. You're a walking bruise now because you wanted to give them entertainment. For all I know, you're the winner, John, and that is because you never gave up."

Blankly, John stared at the man, surprised and amazed with the words he had used to get him back on his feet. Far from what he was expecting, the way he told John off was too different compared to the way his friends did. Chuckling, he told himself that this was CM Punk he was talking to. What made it better was recalling the fact that Punk was actually rooting for him and not Dwayne. A boyish grin spread across his face. Out of all the people who would cheer him up in the most bizarre way possible, it just happened to be the guy who almost got him fired months ago.

Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling of disappointing everyone who had trusted him to win his match, and his stomach gave another twist again, making him flinch this time. He slouched slightly, as if doubling over on his seat. Yeah, Punk was on his side, alright. Great job on letting the guy down.

Then, unexpectedly, he felt a warm hand resting on the top of his head, surprising him and making him turn to the man beside him. There he saw that Punk had moved closer to him, his right hand outstretched to his short, brown hair. At first, he would have wanted to ask the guy what was he doing and didn't he think that what he was doing was embarrassing? But when Punk started ruffling his hair, everything just seemed to have melted and he practically closed his eyes and relaxed as if he was a dog being petted by his master.

"Don't think about anything too much. You'll get crazy from overthinking."

John didn't have the energy to respond, or perhaps it was the comforting sensation he was feeling that he didn't want to speak anymore. His mind just shut down and he felt sleepy all of a sudden. He even had the urge to lay his head on Punk's shoulder and let him pet his head like this for a while. This day had been too tiring from what he was expecting, but maybe it was all worth it.

However, guilt won over and John didn't stop himself from raising his head toward Punk before saying in a broken voice,

"I'm sorry."

Punk frowned. "Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for disappointing you."

"Pshh," Punk scoffed as he turned away from John. "Don't be. You didn't disappoint me, anyway. If you gave up in the middle of it all, then I would have been. But you didn't."

John found it funny how few simple words could make his mood better than before, and it was because of Punk, who, most of the time, 'causes mayhem in the WWE. Who would ever think that Cena would loosen up because of a man he had been feuding with twice already? It was all surreal that he shook his head once more, mumbling, "Thanks."

"No problem," Punk replied and he continued to stroke John's hair, much to the CeNation leader's relief. "You and I both have differences, but when you're troubled, just come to me, alright? I don't care if we've fought for so many times. I just want to let you know how much I respect you."

John smirked. "You don't have to go as far as physical touching."

"Jericho gave me an idea earlier," Punk answered with a shrug. "He ruffled my hair after he tapped out on my Anaconda Vise. Thought you could use some distraction or something."

"Well, it's working quite well, I got to say," John added with a chuckle. "Congratulations on retaining your Championship, by the way."

The champion beamed fully at Cena, grinning at him with gratitude and he returned the favor by patting John lightly on the head. "Well, congratulations on gaining my utmost respect."

And they stayed like that for minutes: with Punk's hand on John's head as he calmed the troubled guy down. They didn't even feel awkward at all – well, at least that was what John thought. Also, they talked. They talked and talked about Laurinitis and his team winning because of Eve, about how Hunter was taking his own loss against The Undertaker, how Jericho had congratulated him after their fight. They talked about anything and everything that would take John's mind off of the match he had with The Rock and in fact, it was really helpful. John's stomach had stop churning, his mind was away from the dreaded reactions of the audience later that day and his focus was only with Punk. He never thought that this guy was this forthcoming. Then he guessed that he never really got to know the guy.

Somehow this time, he wanted to know more.

Right in the middle of Punk's speech about Laurinitis' crappy management skills – which had become their hot, main topic for the night – John let out a yawn and as much as he wanted to try and suppress it, he really couldn't help himself. Punk chuckled when he saw it, although he removed his hand from the man's head and wiping his eyes, John gave the man an apologetic laugh.

"Sorry, I guess I'm just too tired."

"Well, you should have been asleep three hours ago. You really should hit the bed."

"Right," John replied with a nod. He couldn't disagree anymore 'cause seriously, his body was starting to ache now. As much as he wanted to stay and chat with Punk more, he got off the ledge, dusting his jean shorts off right after.

Then, Punk jumped off the ledge as well, following suit and smiling at the older man.

"Calling it a night, too?" He asked Punk as both of them walked toward the door. Punk placed both of his hands behind his head and smirked.

"I guess, or maybe I'll just read some comic before hitting the hay."

John laughed in reply. "If you need help getting to sleep, just give me a call and I'll knock you out with my fist."

Giving a sarcastic 'Ha-ha', Punk sniggered in response. "Yeah, as if you can knock the greatest WWE Champion out."

Placing a hand on the knob, the older man smiled, shook his head before stopping in front of his companion. Then spoke in a serious tone, "But really, if you got any problems, anything at all, just give me a call, alright? Consider it as payback for cheering me up."

Perhaps Punk was surprised with what John had just said for he dropped his hands from the back of his head and eyed the CeNation leader for a second, his eyes looking into John's blue ones. John thought Punk was going to brush him off, tell him that he didn't need his help or something, and that he could take care of himself. He even thought of Punk hitting him square in the face. But then the champion reached out, placed his hand on John's head once more and this time, ruffled his head a little too harshly.

"Get your ass to sleep, you big goof," Punk said with a laugh before removing his hand from John's head.

John smiled. Damn right he was going to sleep soundly tonight. And it was all thanks to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Oh, didn't I remind you guys? This fic is slash! LOL! Shoulda warned you already in the first chapter. Well, sorry about that! XD To those who enjoy reading this fic, thanks a lot for reading my awful rusty work. I love you guys!

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><p>Punk was shivering.<p>

No matter how much he tried not to, his hands just kept on shaking like he was in the middle of the arctic. He tried lacing his fingers, rubbing his palms together, sinking his hands in his pockets, even tried to calm himself down but they didn't work, didn't even help at all. He tried getting some sleep and sought comfort under his blankets, thinking that resting his head would help him get rid of the sickening feeling in his gut. Thankfully, he was able to sleep, but only for about a couple of hours before he suddenly shot up from his bed, panting and sweating like he had just run a mile. After that, he didn't try shutting his eyes anymore and headed straight to the rooftop, thinking that the fresh air would help clear his head.

Much to his disappointment, it helped but just for a bit.

Hugging his knee closer to his chest, Punk let out a shaky breath. He let his back rest against the ledge where he had been sitting on twenty four hours ago, and all of a sudden, he wondered where John Cena was at the moment. He had no idea why he was looking for the large goofball out of the blue, maybe because he suddenly missed the easygoing presence of the CeNation leader, but really, seeing Cena's dimpled smile could help right now, like the many times it did when he wasn't feeling any better at all.

Punk smiled to himself, then cursed for smiling at the thought of Cena's smile. Yes, he liked the guy, much more than he would admit. _Come on,_ nobody could hate the guy. With his happy-go-lucky aura even the saddest man could crack a smile whenever John let out a hearty laugh. Even he, who claimed to be annoyed whenever Cena was around, always felt that his problems were being lifted away every time the guy beamed as if nothing would ever go wrong.

That was why he was kind of surprised to see Cena sulking last night. It was unusual to see the guy in such a foul mood so Punk decided to cheer him up. Something in his chest twisted painfully upon seeing John's sad demeanor. He knew how hard it was to admit defeat, but it had always been easy for him 'cause he always fought for himself. However, Cena was different. The man fought for his remaining fans, for the little kids that shouted "Let's Go Cena" and for the ladies who screamed whenever he walked down the ramp. John didn't have his own pride at stake in that match; what he risked was the trust and the faith that his fans had invested in him to win against his opponent. And Punk bet his ass John had his heart shattered when the Ref had counted three on him that night.

Despite all of that, though, Punk was glad that he was able to lift John's spirits up. He didn't know how he did it, but he was just glad that he did. He was able to make John laugh and distract him from thinking about the outcome of his loss, even for just a while. He even accompanied the guy to his hotel room before proceeding to his own because he got to admit, he was really worried about him.

It was just ironic that this time, it was Punk himself who needed some comforting.

_But really, if you got any problems, anything at all, just give me a call, alright? Consider it as payback for cheering me up._

As soon as that train of thought popped in his head, Punk shook his head, letting out an incredulous laugh. He was CM Punk. He could handle his own problems. He didn't need any help because he was the help. He was the savior. Saviors didn't need any comfort.

But why was he looking for Cena if he didn't need his help?

Punk shifted on his seat, his trembling hand reaching for the phone in his pocket. Would he really call Cena? If he did, would he answer? Maybe it would be too late to call now. It was already two in the morning. The guy was probably in his bed, sleeping soundly on his mattress. He wouldn't even realize that someone was placing a call on his voicemail right this moment.

Defeated by the voices in his head, he dropped his hand and leaned his head back against the concrete behind him. He was strong; he had always been strong. When the worst happened to him, he let it happen, moved on and dealt with it.

The problem was that he had no idea that the worst would end up with him feeling like shit.

"Fucking Jericho," he murmured bitterly under his breath.

"Really, Punk? You're talking to yourself now?"

Punk's heart dropped when he heard the familiar, deep voice but he didn't keep his hopes up. No, there was no way in hell. He was just imagining things. Cena couldn't be here. Fuck it, was he missing the guy so much that he was being tricked by his brain into thinking that the biggest goof in the WWE would take a break on the roof top at two fucking AM?

But dropping his head now, he could really see John Cena walking to his direction, changed into his normal street clothes while looking at him with a concerned smile. Punk's insides swirled. Damn it all, his head went. _Please don't let this be a dream._

Deciding to hide his true feelings inside, Punk leaned his head back again and stared up at the night sky. "What are you doing here, Cena?"

"I was looking for you."

Well that was a straightforward answer. It made Punk chuckle dubiously but when he looked back at the man's eyes, he couldn't help but trust the guy's words. The guy was undoubtedly telling the truth; he had been always an honest man anyway. And Punk felt stupid for liking it and hating it at the same time.

"Okay, now that you finally found me, you can scram and get the hell out of here."

John merely smiled at him. "I don't know. I like the air up here."

"Fine, you can stay. But keep your mouth shut."

"I don't think I can do that either," John replied as he sat on the space beside Punk. "What are you going to do about –"

Punk knew this was coming. The guy had promised, after all. But he wouldn't let him meddle in his business so before John could finish his question, Punk interrupted with a sharp, "No."

"I just want to know –"

"I said no, Cena. Now zip your talking hole."

"You know that won't stop me, Punk. Come on, just one question."

Groaning mentally, Punk rolled his head and let out a sigh. There were times that he couldn't refuse John's request. Why did it have to be now?

"Fine, one question, then shut up."

"Okay, I promise," the CeNation leader replied, his eyes on Punk. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," Punk answered sarcastically. His back ached, his head felt like it was being ripped apart and his hands couldn't stop trembling no matter how much he forced them to stay steady. Yeah, he felt good, alright.

"Come on, Punk, I know you know that I don't believe you," John said skeptically. "Jericho smashed a bottle of Jack Daniels right on your head. You think I'll buy the shit you're telling me now?"

"Believe whatever you want to believe, Cena."

And he closed the discussion with that. He didn't want John messing in his issues. For one, the guy already had issues of his own. Earlier that night, Lesnar came back and gave John a F5 without warning. Sure, the crowd, as usual, loved the sight of a legend coming back in the ring and John Cena lying helplessly on the floor. For some, like John's best friends and Punk himself, it wasn't a laughing or cheering matter.

Secondly, Jericho was a crazy fucker. If he knew of this little accident meeting he had been having with John, there was a hundred percent chance that he'd get the CeNation leader involved in their stupid feud.

Punk had a million of other reasons why he didn't want to answer John's questions right now, including how his fucking aching head wasn't helping at the moment, but his thoughts came into an abrupt halt as soon as he felt warm, calloused fingers lacing with his, and that stopped him from his mental debate. He threw his head toward John and frowned when he found the guy studying their joined hands as if they were a piece of experiment.

"What the fuck are you doing Cena?" He asked angrily before trying to snatch his hand back from John's grasp. Nevertheless, the guy tightened his grip on it and Punk cursed himself for letting him do what he wanted.

"You're still shaking."

"What do you mean I'm still shaking? Give me my hand back, Cena."

"Right after Jericho smashed that bottle in your head," John started with a serious voice, his hold on Punk's hand firm. "The camera closed up on you and I caught your hands shaking. It got me worried."

Punk stopped struggling after that and he averted his eyes away from John. He couldn't believe that he had let himself be seen in such a vulnerable state. Feeling ashamed of himself, the champion let out a deep, heavy breath and with it, he let every single thing go and he sat back against the wall again, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

"It's alcohol withdrawal."

He paused, hesitating. Should he continue? It wasn't John's business to know, anyway.

"Wait, I thought you're alcohol free."

"I'm not done yet, Cena," Punk snapped at the other man. He had to tell him or else rumors would spread like a wildfire. At least make it clear to the guy. "When I was a kid, my Dad had been an avid drinker. It went on until I became a teenager. I wouldn't lie to you when I say that there was some point in my early teens that he forced me to drink alcohol. But hey, don't get me wrong. The first time I drank alcohol was the last time I did. Jericho might be disappointed to know he wasn't able to give me my first drink so don't you say a word about this."

At the corner of his eye, he could see John watching him and the stare almost burned the side of his face. That didn't matter though 'cause Punk was more interested on looking away and turning his attention to the little black spot on the floor. That being said, it didn't waver John's stare at all.

"You had some of Jericho's drink, didn't you?"

Punk snorted. "It's pretty hard not to when he's pouring it right down your face."

The claim had John chuckling deeply and Punk returned it with a light laugh. There it went again, that small laugh that seemed to make his mood better every time. It was like medicine to him, like the only cure for his wild temper. He didn't lie when he said that wrestling was his addiction, but he wasn't lying either when he admitted to himself that his second addiction was Cena's chuckle.

"Been shaking ever since?"

"Been shaking ever since," Punk echoed with a head shake.

"And you tried stopping it?"

"Tried everything and anything. Nothing worked."

"Damn it, you should have called me, man," John said with an exasperated sigh. He even pulled Punk's hand just to get the guy's attention. "I couldn't even care less about Brock's attack on me. I just had to find you as soon as I can."

"Stop worrying about someone else, Cena," Punk claimed in a heartbeat. He knew John was going to say those ridiculous words again. He hated it when someone's worried for him. Well, he hated the fact that John was worried for him. He didn't need anyone to feel concerned for him. "Live your own life. You got your own issues so don't meddle into someone else's."

"Say what you want to say. I told you that I have to pay you back." John's voice was calm and deep. He couldn't seem to lose his patience with Punk. "Hey, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have the courage to face the crowd tonight. Without your help, I would have continued sulking alone in this place. You've done that to me. This time, I just want to make sure you to get back on your feet."

Finally, since John had caught hold of his hand, Punk looked back at John, his hazel green eyes burning toward the older man's dark blue orbs. He couldn't figure out, for the love of god, why this guy was so stubborn when it came to his sake. He stole the championship from the guy, got his job in jeopardy when he won back in Money In The Bank and still, the fucking guy backed him up. Didn't even let Vince play dirty just to keep the Championship in the WWE. They weren't even that close. Casual greetings down the hallway and the arena; that was all the communication they had. Perhaps that was how John did things. Never fail to return what you owe. Hustle. Loyalty. Respect.

Punk snorted mentally. Looked like the whiskey Jericho gave him had finally kicked in.

"Okay, fine," the younger man said with a smile. "I know what you want to hear. Thank you. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for the concern. Thank you for keeping me company." Then he added as soon as John returned the smile, "You can go now."

"No, wait, that's not all what I want to hear," Cena replied with a head shake. "I want you to promise me that you'd call when you're troubled, alright?"

Rolling his eyes, Punk's shoulders sagged wearily. _This guy really doesn't shut up, does he?_

"Yes, Mom, I'll give you a call." And seeing that John was off guard, Punk grabbed his hand away from the man's grasp, smirking at the guy in success. Although, he was quite confused at the cheerful smile the man was giving him.

Looking at his hand, he gave a smile of his own. His hand was steady. It had stopped shaking. He had no clue how it happened. He shook his head and chuckled at himself.

_Well, I'll be damned._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **And the slash begins. Not really lol. BTW, sorry for a day late update. My mom was rushed to the hospital yesterday so I had to postpone finishing this chapter. But yay it's here! XD Enjoy you guys! Sorry for the crappy writing lol.

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><p>It had been three hours since Monday Night Raw had ended and John was still restless. His knees bobbed up and down as he sat on his hotel bed, palms slightly sweaty as his hands took hold of his phone and he kept on heaving a sigh for each minute that had passed. And seriously, he was getting more and more anxious as the seconds ticked on his watch and somehow, it felt like someone had placed a grandfather clock right beside his ear. Eyes fixed on the blank screen on his phone the CeNation leader gritted his teeth and willed himself to just calm the fuck down.<p>

What was it that was making this man so unnerved, you ask? It was just a simple phone call.

No, it wasn't because of a life-threatening deal or an anticipated ambush from an enemy or anything that dangerous. It was because he was waiting for a simple phone call from a certain man named CM Punk, who had promised that he would call once something bad happened. Well, he wasn't sure if something bad really happened to Punk 'cause he was too busy shaping up for his main event match with Otunga, leaving him no time to watch the guy's fight with Henry. That being said, right after he got F-5'ed by Lesnar for the second time, he got back to the locker room only to hear a couple of guys talking about Jericho and his continuing torments on the Champion. And even though he only heard the words 'Jericho showed up again right after Punk's match', he stormed out of the room and headed back to the hotel to look for the guy.

To no luck, he didn't find a single trace of Punk. He tried the man's hotel room, asked around the reception, even knocked around Punk's neighbors just to ask if they saw the Straight Edge Savior get home safely. And that must be his unlucky night for nobody saw the guy come through the entrance of the hotel and Punk's neighbors didn't hear any noise from his room. Also, he pounded on his door for almost a minute, half-expecting Punk to slam the door open and shout _'What the hell is the matter with you?'_ in his face. Well, nobody answered and that brought John's mood falling flat on the ground.

Now his only hope was the phone call Punk had promised him, although his hope seemed to deplete as the seconds went by.

"Dammit, Punk, where the hell are you?" John asked under his breath as his knees continued to bounce up and down in worry. Feeling kind of sick from the swirling in his stomach, he threw his phone on the bed and pressed the heels of his hands on his eyes, resting them for a few seconds. Darn it, shouldn't he be sleeping right now? Why did he want to see Punk so badly tonight, anyway?

John let out a deep breath, clearing his head up in the process. He needed to calm down; to think. Panicking wasn't the best solution right now. Just calm down, be patient and wait.

To his surprise, that statement actually worked. The tension of his muscles had relaxed, his heart started beating normally again and the spinning in his stomach had subsided. And he was planning on maintaining his aura like this until his ears would hear buzzing from his phone.

The only thing that interrupted his 'meditation' was a knock on the door.

It sounded hurried but John didn't care. It may be Brock on the other side, wanting to rip his head off from his neck or a WWE Creative Staff calling him for an urgent rehearsal or something but he didn't care. Perhaps it was a fan that had made his way in the hotel at two in the morning, but John didn't move from his seat. This incident had happened to him once or twice a week and from experience he knew that sometimes it was best not to answer the door anymore.

Nevertheless, the knocking didn't stop. Also, it sounded like the person on the other side really wanted to wake him up. Shoulders sagging wearily, John heaved himself up from the bed and walked to the door. Seriously, if this was another fan wanting his autograph in the middle of the night, he would shamelessly ask Kane to watch the door for him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm opening the door, geez –"

And in fact, he did, only to have his jaw dropped from its hinges.

CM Punk stood on the other side, and quite surprisingly, the guy was still in his wrestling gear. His gray shirt was slightly crumpled up, Championship belt worn around his waist and a bag hanging over his shoulder. Even his somewhat ruined wrist tape was still wrapped around his hands. But what caught John's attention the most was the frown that was etched across the Straight Edge Savior's face.

Punk placed a hand on John's door and spoke as he looked straight into John's eyes.

"I had to find you."

And damn John would be fucking lying if he didn't say that his heart fluttered at Punk's words. He even felt the heat rise up to his cheeks and he fought to keep the smile off his face.

"Really? You had to find me?"

"Yeah," Punk answered indifferently. "I need to use your bathroom."

It took John seconds to process what Punk said for he was kind of expecting words like _'I need your company right now'_ or _'Can I stay here for a while'_ so it kind of caught him off guard when the man answered his question. Really, he didn't know whether to feel disappointed or embarrassed for his stupid assumptions.

But John merely let it all go and stepped aside to give Punk room to enter. "I guess that's what the bag is for – wait, what is that smell?"

Punk stopped walking and stared back at John as if he was a deer caught in headlights. And in a second, the frown was back again. "You didn't see my match earlier, did you?"

John shook his head in reply. "No, I was in the locker room getting myself prepared for my own match. What happened to you back there?"

"Jericho assaulted me again," the Straight Edge Savior answered with a sigh. "And what you smell is the stench of dry beer stuck in my skin. Ugh, I think I'm going to be sick."

And with that, Punk dropped his bag on the floor then turned back to John who was watching him as the older man closed the door behind them. "So can I use your bathroom?"

"Y-Yeah, sure," John replied hesitantly. He didn't know what to say at all for he had a _lot_ of questions running through his head, starting from _'Are you okay?'_ to _'Why are you showering in my bathroom?' _and in fact, he had no clue where to start. Punk hated questions that made him look like a mugged victim or something so John crossed the obvious questions out. Although when he was about to start asking, the other man was already in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

John was left in the middle of the room, his mouth agape in confusion.

Shaking himself awake the CeNation leader let out an amused laugh as he grabbed the Championship belt and the forgotten bag that was lying on the floor. Replacing them on the side of the bathroom door, he took a seat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the room where Punk was in as he chose whether to start asking or to just shut up and wait for Punk to leave. Curiosity got the better of him, though, and he cleared his throat before saying Punk's name out loud.

"Yeah?" was the simple reply from the Champion.

"Why are you showering just now?" And just in time, there was a sound of the shower head being turned on, so John had to speak louder as he continued, "And why do you have to use my bathroom?"

There was silence around the room except the pelting sound of the water hitting the tiled floor. And because of that, John thought that Punk wouldn't answer anymore so he let out a disappointed sigh. But then Punk's voice rang from inside the bathroom, responding to his hanging question.

"Medics took me to the clinic right after my match with Jericho. I didn't realize I passed out while they were tending me. Guess they let me be 'cause I woke up just half an hour ago. First thing I thought when I woke up was to take a shower so I headed first to my room, and guess what I found."

There was a pause and John had to ask out loud, "What?"

"My bathroom was flooded with water and somebody had played with the pipes. I bet it was fucking Jericho, I swear. I don't know how he did it and I didn't have the time to wonder or to wait for a plumber to fix the tubes, so I had to find you and ask you to let me use your shower."

That actually made John smile without reason, and grinning to himself, he leaned back on his bed, propping himself up with his hands. "So I'm the first guy you thought of?"

And there was no answer after that. John held his breath, anticipating a good reply from Punk, but no voice came after. Just the sound of the shower breaking the little silence between them. John's shoulders sagged. He must have asked the wrong question this time. Suppressing a groan, he hit his forehead with his palm, cursing himself for asking such a stupid, ridiculous thing. It sounded like he was having a high-school crush on the guy for crying out loud! He was there as a friend, not as an infatuated teenager damn it.

Well just to his luck – sarcastically speaking – he didn't hear from Punk since then and that actually crushed something inside John. He must have creeped the man out with his question. Feeling guilty, he heaved himself up from his bed, snatched the remote control from his bedside table and turned the TV on, just to distract himself from thinking about what he did, hoping that the sound of the television would drown himself to sleep so that Punk could leave without saying goodbye anymore.

Although it seemed that his head wasn't cooperating with him right now for thoughts kept on bombarding his head as he flipped on the channels to find a better show to watch for the night. He wanted to talk to Punk. Screw it, since their little chat the night after John's defeat at WrestleMania, his ears appeared to have been so hooked on Punk's voice that he actually smiled himself to sleep while thinking about it. In fact he was even looking forward to the sarcastic remarks that came from the man. And then after a week of not seeing each other, this was what he would get? A silent treatment from a guy he had been worried about for the past three and a half hours?

John's thumb kept on pressing the button on the remote control as if he was actually scanning every channel on the damn TV but his mind floated away as he did. And from too much thinking, he didn't realize that Punk was already coming out from the bathroom with the younger man drying his hair up with a towel. The chuckle that came from the Chicago native was the only thing that woke John from his deep trance.

"Seriously, John, are you trying to break your TV?"

Snapping his head toward Punk, John dropped the remote in an instant and sat up on the bed in surprise. The guy was wearing a spare of his white "Best in the World" shirts with faded jeans for his bottoms. He barely saw the guy in casual clothing, he realized, and the only times he could remember were back at the night where The Rock beat him at WrestleMania and the first night Lesnar gave him the F-5.

Huh. Looked like they were having these meet-ups weekly without even noticing.

"Didn't your mom tell you it's rude to stare?"

That query made John chuckle and shake his head with a little laugh. "I just find it unusual to see your hair like that. I mean, it's like you always use a day's worth of hair gel on whenever you get in the ring."

"Stop making excuses, Cena. Just admit that you were staring."

John nodded with a shrug. "Yes, I was staring."

"And that's my cue to go."

Making a move to grab his things, Punk reached for his bag and Championship belt which were carefully placed beside the bathroom door and to be honest, it made John panic all of a sudden. Jumping off the bed, he approached the younger man before everything was too late.

"Hey, hey, I was kidding. No staring, I swear."

Punk paused and tapped his chin with his index finger as if thinking carefully. "Meh, I'm still going even if you weren't so – "

"Come on, Punk," John said almost pleadingly. He even stopped himself from grabbing Punks wrist to prove he was serious. "Do you seriously want to go back to a flooding hotel room? And besides, you just got here. Make yourself comfortable."

The Chicago native eyed John straight into his eyes, chewing on his lip ring as if considering John's offer carefully. Then after a second, Punk shrugged his shoulders, suddenly smirking at the CeNation leader and saying, "Yeah, I guess I can stay for a while," before dropping his things back on the floor again and rushing toward John's bed, leaving the older man gaping in surprise.

Silently, John watched Punk reach for the remote control then lay back on the bed. It seemed that this kid was really making himself comfortable. The sight made him chuckle out but he didn't expect Punk to hear it at all.

"What's so funny?" The Champion asked as his attention was waved away from the show he was watching.

"I was just thinking," John replied while leaning on the wall beside the bed. "You look horrible tonight, man."

"Psshh," Punk scoffed out loud with a smirk. "Says the guy who got a busted lip."

That made John crack up and shake his head in amusement. He had to admit, he was still feeling the blow of Lesnar's fist against his mouth and boy did it knock him out for a split second. But he didn't care about that. Heck he didn't even mind the second consecutive F-5 Brock gave him earlier that night. All of the pain just magically disappeared when he heard about Jericho appearing again right after Punk's match with Henry.

"So," John asked cautiously, his hands on his back. "Did Jericho douse you with alcohol again?"

He was expecting Punk to retort or ask him to back off and mind his own damn business so when the younger man answered indifferently, it really surprised the hell out of him. Although he couldn't rule out the sarcasm that was tainting his voice as he spoke.

"Yeah, he did. And he's actually getting creative. He used beer this time."

"Did your alcohol withdrawal kick in again?"

"Nah, it didn't," and without thinking about it, Punk lifted his hand with his palm facing up, not too obviously though but John noticed it was the hand he held when he was comforting Punk a week ago. John's heart skipped a beat with that but he didn't say anything. He didn't want to get things awkward.

Kicking out from his daze, Punk snapped a head toward John all of a sudden, startling the bigger man for a bit. "By the way, congratulations on slapping a UFC Fighter right in the face. It was classic, Cena."

John snorted and crossed his arms on his chest. "Yeah, well, I didn't know that my prize was a bloodied lip."

He was laughing at the matter right now, but John was seriously enraged about what happened. If it wasn't for half the locker room and staff holding him back, he would have smashed Lesnar's face right there in the ring. But he guessed he could wait; he had been a patient man anyway. There was still Extreme Rules. He was going to get his payback when that night comes.

There was still something else that he wanted to focus on first before turning his attention to another pissed off legend.

"Hey Punk," John asked when he noticed Punk's eyes starting to droop close. Despite that, Punk turned to him, waiting for what he would say next. "I was wondering what could make you feel better tonight."

Punk hummed thoughtfully with that then answered in a slightly excited tone, "My comics. And some ice cream."

"Wait, what?" John blurted out. He was expecting something else, like verbal encouragement, or looking for Jericho right this moment and kicking his ass so that he couldn't go on the tour this week. Really? That was what Punk wanted? "I don't know what comics you like and I doubt there's an ice cream store open right now."

"Hey, you're the one who asked me what could make me feel better, you ass. Come on, my comics are in the closet in my hotel room and I bet you can find a 24-hour convenience store just around the area. Run along now."

Without complain, John moved on with his feet as Punk waved him off like a billionaire asking his butler to get him some food. Well, what could he do? He did say that he wanted to make Punk's mood brighter. Besides, he promised that he would make the guy feel better every time he was troubled. Obviously, the perfect time to do that was now.

Stepping outside his room, he shook his head in amusement as he shut the door behind him. _The things that I do for the people I care for._

Precisely thirty minutes later – yes, he was measuring the time since he left – John got back to his hotel room, a stack of comic books and a gallon of vanilla ice cream in tow, only to find the TV left forgotten on and a sleeping Punk on his bed. John couldn't help a sigh, smiling at himself right after. Punk looked so peaceful in his sleep; body curled up in a fetal position and arms wrapped around a fluffy pillow. John didn't have the heart to wake the guy up. Well, who would, even?

Fetching a paper and a pen from his bedside drawer, he scribbled a note for Punk, telling him that he left the ice cream in the fridge then leaving the note on top of the comics which he placed right beside the sleeping guy's head.

John turned the TV off, switching the lights off on the way out, taking one last look on Punk's sleeping figure before exiting through the door.

"Goodnight, Punk."

And with that, he left.

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><p><strong>P.S.:<strong> Anybody of you already have an idea why the fic's entitled "Two Hundred Hours"? :3 LOL Review if you like! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Early update! XD Again, enjoy and review if you like. I love you all and your reviews really make my day! :D

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><p>There were a lot of reasons why Punk didn't hang around the arena after competing in his matches that were scheduled at the first hour of the show. Well of course, for one, he was tired. Wrestling in the ring could take a lot of energy out of him and Punk preferred to get out as early as possible so that he could grab something to eat or ask Kofi to have them headed straight back to the hotel. Two, as far as he knew his matches were the only things that mattered. He didn't have the time to stick around and watch other boring matches, especially when crappy TV guest stars would be cutting a promo that night or he would be informed that John Cena would be competing for the last match of the show.<p>

And then, for the first time in a long time, the Straight-Edge Savior found himself standing by the locker room door, fingers drumming on his championship belt as it lay on his shoulder. Most people in the room – okay, correction – _every_ superstar in the locker room had already gone home. But he stayed behind. He kind of surprised Kofi when he refused to go back to the hotel with him and quite honestly, he had surprised himself too.

Punk's fingers drummed on the plaque on his shoulder, a sign that he was getting more impatient by the second. Where the hell is that son of a bitch, he asked himself as he turned his head sideways to the dim lighted aisle before him. Raw had officially ended thirty minutes ago. Even the guys who competed in the dark match had already packed their bags and left. Where the fuck is that big goof?

An aggravated sigh escaped the man's lips as he dropped his hands and placed them in his pockets. This was bad; so fucking bad. In a span of two weeks, his attachment with Cena had gotten stronger and somehow he had made it a point since he woke up alone in the guy's bed that he would have at least one short conversation with him every week. And that, in all honesty, would definitely make his week – of course, if you count out beating Jericho into a pulp once in seven days.

He didn't even want to ask himself why he wanted to have conversations with the CeNation leader. Because, come on, the guy was John Cena. He was supposed to be hating the guy for being treated highly because he was such a giant asskisser and all, but deep inside he knew that wasn't true. Cena got to where he was now because he worked hard for it and he continued to work hard for his fans. And Punk respected that. Hell, he even gave the guy more credit than he would ever credit The Rock. And although he might have made fun of it the year before that was just because he was bored and he wanted to be entertained before his contract finally burned to the ground.

Sounds of footsteps bounced around the walls around Punk and it woke the man from his trip down memory lane. Heaving himself off the wall he was leaning on, he took hold of his championship belt and stepped forward when he finally saw the familiar figure of John Cena with a white towel over his eyes and one medic supporting him by half carrying him from the right as they walked toward Punk's direction.

Punk tried to not to react harshly upon seeing John's condition but inside he felt like bashing someone's face with a baseball bat. Really? Last week, the guy's lips fucking split open when Lesnar hit him in the face and now he was blinded by a green colored spit from a guy who didn't even speak convincing Japanese. Keeping it all to himself, Punk quickly moved to John and placed the man's free arm over his shoulders, supporting him from the other side. He saw the medic give him a smile in thanks, a thing he returned with a smile of his own.

"I can't believe you're still here, Punk."

That made Punk stop momentarily but he moved nonetheless. "How the fuck did you know?"

There was a light laugh coming from the man's throat. "I think I've had enough matches with you to know how your shoulders feel like."

Punk's face screwed up in disgust but John's answer actually made him flush. It was a good thing this guy was temporarily blinded. "Ugh, dude I never thought you were such a creep."

"Says the guy who drooled on my pillows last week."

Snorting in amusement, the younger man swung the locker room door open and helped John sit on the nearest bench in sight. Of course, it wouldn't be done in a breeze if it wasn't for the medic who thanked him for the help and, somehow, thought that he was Cena's caretaker for the man left him pointers and tips on how to get John back in shape before leaving the two superstars alone in the room. Punk didn't even mind one bit, though, 'cause he was there to help anyway. No use arguing about the obvious stuff now.

Turning back to John, Punk's mood fell again upon seeing the CeNation leader hunched on the bench with one hand pressing the cloth against his eyes. He said it before, he would say it again: he hated seeing Cena so vulnerable like this – except when they were facing in a match, of course. Trying his best not to click his tongue, Punk sat beside the older man and placed the championship belt carefully on the space beside him.

"What took you so long?" And the question was out of Punk's mouth before he even realized it. Nevertheless, he didn't regret asking it out loud because quite frankly, he had been waiting for the guy for almost an hour already. He had the right to demand a right answer.

John dropped his hand along with the fabric in his grasp. "I was under medical attention right after my match with Tensai. I couldn't leave until they're positive that I'm okay."

"Well, are you okay?" Punk couldn't help but ask. Beside him, John opened his eyes, although difficultly then turned to him and gave him a reassuring smile.

"Of course, I am. Even though everything's still a blur, literally and figuratively, I'm all okay."

"That's good to hear," the champion said quite too loudly but he did not dare take it back. For once in a long time, he was being honest with his feelings again.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I still have to buy you vanilla ice cream in return, remember that."

John chuckled heartily but Punk could still hear a taint of disdain in his voice. Of course he knew when a person was lying to him; he had a habit of lying to his mom that he was fine when he was a kid. And he knew that laugh. He used to give it to his mom when she was trying to make him laugh. Yes, he would chuckle for her sake but in the back of his head, his dad's beatings played in his head like a movie that was played on loop.

But that went way back when his dad was still an alcoholic. And somehow he was thankful for it 'cause now he could read people properly. Especially John.

"Can I ask you a question?" Punk asked, shifting on his seat to face John properly.

John glanced at the younger man, dabbed his left eye with the cloth in his hand and shrugged at him. "You've been on an asking streak. Guess you can keep on inquiring then."

"What you said about Laurinitis tonight on Raw," Punk's brows slowly met in a frown as he looked up at Cena when he continued. "Tell me, was that all true?"

And in a split of a second, Punk felt the sudden change in John's mood. The CeNation leader took his eyes away from the younger man then dropped his hands down. He kept his stare on the fabric on his hand but he didn't speak, making Punk more relentless as the seconds went by without an answer. Although it took John a couple of seconds before he finally gave the champion a pained smile.

"They're going to fire me, Punk."

"What?" Punk asked in disbelief, trying to push it in his mind that he just misheard what John said but when it finally registered inside his head, he panicked. "What the fuck are you talking about, Cena?"

This time, the smile was wiped off the man's face. "Right after my promo I confronted Laurinitis and he told me, directly in my face, that if he can't fire me because the company won't like it, he'll get rid of me by putting me in the injured list _permanently_."

Punk's mouth dropped open in incredulity, his fists clenching so tight his nails dug into his palms. No, that couldn't be. That couldn't happen. "Laurinitis don't have the power to do that, Cena, so if I were you –"

"Think about it, Punk," John interrupted with a stern and slightly angered voice. "Right after Mania, who shook Laurinitis' hand like a fucking suck up and then busted my mouth open? Brock Lesnar. And he's the only guy who made me draw blood in _years._ I'm sure Laurinitis hired him to get rid of me and Lesnar took the job just 'cause he has been wanting to end me for a long time already.

"And look at me now. All blinded and beaten up because I forbid myself to get manipulated by the son of a bitch."

Gritting his teeth, Punk's anger finally hit its boiling point, making him draw heavy breaths in the efforts of trying to get himself together. But it was no use. Instead he stood up and paced up and down the room, hoping that moving around would let him calm down. His eyes burned, his sight went dark with bleak tremendous rage. This couldn't be possible, his head screamed. Why now? Why did it have to be fucking now? If he found himself in the same situation and in the same place a couple of years ago, he wouldn't even care less if John's job, not to mention his health, was in danger. He wouldn't even be listening to John's side at all. So why did this have to happen when he was finally starting to care about the guy? Why did they have to take him away when he finally wanted to be by his side?

"_Why?"_

The sound of metal colliding with his fist filled the quiet room and echoed away in moments. But the sound rang inside Punk's head like a faraway voice and it stayed there until his eyes found his bleeding knuckle against the dented surface of the nearest locker in sight. That seemed to have woken him up, but that didn't mean that his anger was finally gone.

Hazel green eyes burning with resolve, the younger man drew his hand back. "Laurinitis is gonna fucking pay."

And indeed he would make the fucking guy pay. He had already turned his heel toward the door but a tight, warm grip on his wrist made him stop on his tracks. Turning his head, he found Cena standing right behind him, a hand wrapped around his wrist tape, warm and damped blue eyes looking straight into his determined ones. The sight made Punk's chest swell up in emotion but that didn't stop him. It wouldn't stop him from bringing hell on John fucking Laurinitis.

"Let me go, Cena!" Punk bellowed at the guy. "I'm going to show Laurinitis what happens when he does shit on people I care for and if you let me go right now, I can still catch up on him."

"Let it, go, Punk."

"Let it go? _Let it go? _Are you even listening to what you're saying, Cena? That's why most of our audience hates you, you dick! You don't know how to fight back. You let everything pass with a smile and a cheery laugh and then move on. You won't get anywhere if you stay like that, you prick! Have some balls to retaliate for once in your life!"

Punk pulled his hand away from John's grip but he just held him tighter. With John stopping him like this, he wouldn't catch up on Laurinitis anymore. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? He was doing him a favor, damn it!

"Come on, John! Do you want to take this shit Laurinitis is putting you through? If you let this go, _you_ are going to leave and what about your fans then, huh? What about your friends? What about –"

Stopping himself, Punk bit his lip and dropped his gaze.

_What about me?_

"Don't get me wrong, Punk," John said softly as he moved closer to the younger man. "I'm pissed at Laurinitis and what he's doing to me. I'm furious at Brock for returning and making me look like shit. But beating people up isn't gonna solve anything. All I can do now is keep my head in the game stay strong because I love my fans. I love my friends. I love my co-workers. I love y—"

John stopped abruptly and Punk looked up at him in slight surprise. The bigger man shook his head and let out a sigh. "Listen to me, the point is that if you walk through that door and beat the shit out of Laurinitis right now, it wouldn't just end up with me getting fired but you being unemployed too."

That seemed to have worked on Punk for he let out a sigh in defeat and he sagged his shoulders. "Fine, you win. But just because I don't want him holding out the Championship to anyone, especially Jericho."

Letting out a chuckle, John smiled at Punk, his dimples exposed on either side of his cheeks and in an instant, Punk's anger was gone. He was too shy to admit it though and just to hide the sudden change in his temper he placed his bleeding knuckle flatly on John's chest."You just make me worry too much, man."

"Really," John said with a hint of humor in his tone. "You're worried about me?"

The statement hit Punk like a tidal wave and his heart practically leapt out of his chest. He couldn't believe he had just let himself get transparent again. For the second time in his life, he had found himself rendered speechless by the same guy. First was last week when John asked him if he was the first guy he thought of when he woke up from the clinic. Yes, it was John who popped in his head the moment his eyes opened that night but he was too guilty to admit it that was why he kept his mouth shut.

This time, the answer was another yes but he wouldn't let John know that. That was why he ducked out of John's stare, obviously trying to hide his embarrassment.

"Shut up, Cena."

Another laugh escaped John, this time, much louder than before then he finally let go of Punk. The champion watched the CeNation leader pack his bags, although it was obvious that he was still having a hard time seeing things. Rolling his eyes, Punk grabbed John's things, handed it to the guy before taking his own bag and belt then resumed on helping him walk by supporting him from the side.

"Seriously, why do I have to clean up after your mess, you douche," Punk said with a groan as they walked toward the parking lot.

"My mess? You broke a locker with your fist just minutes ago. You are gonna pay for that literally."

"I'd rather spend my money on fish and chips, thank you very much."

John laughed at that claim, making Punk chuckle himself. He helped John get his bags in his own truck later after that then drove the poor guy back to his hotel. These were the only things that he could do for now for he finally understood John. Punk didn't even want anyone fiddling in his business with Jericho. But if John would ask for more than this, he wouldn't hesitate one bit to hold out a helping hand for him. And he was pretty sure John would do the same thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** ...so I'm back...? ..can you guys drop the knives and the shovels...? Anyways, I'm back. And please don't kill me. I've been trying my very best to finish this story and I will still update it. I was actually supposed to post this chapter last week but we had some internet issues. Okay, I'll stop rambling now. Enjoy and reviews are always welcome.

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><p>Sitting quietly inside the still, stagnant, empty locker room John grazed a thumb over the metal lock that was clasped in his rough, calloused hands. The sight of the chain that was linked around his neck almost an hour ago had him recalling the things that had happened years ago. The memories made him realize how much he had changed and considering the things that had been happening to him in the past month, he wasn't even sure if the change that had happened to him was for the better at all. He used to be the guy who stood his ground, fought to prove himself, not even giving a fuck who it was that he was going to face as long as he was able to show that he would never back down from a fight.<p>

But with the years that had gone by, he grew soft. That hard, rock-like shell that he wore along with his throwback jerseys and baseball caps he wore backwards had already faded away, crumbled down to the ground like a hundred year old wall. He didn't mind it at first; heck he didn't even notice that he had changed at all. As far as he knew, he was still the old guy who enjoyed every second that he spent in the ring. The raps, the chain locks and the filthy words might have been forgotten but he was still the same guy who respected everyone he saw worth respecting and gave credit when it was due. But he didn't know that this change in him was slowly destroying him from the inside and he would have been clueless up to now until a couple of people would point it out for him.

He became vulnerable; a man who forgot how to fight back when his name in the industry was on the line. He took all the blows and ate them up without even intending to hit back. He became weak and he wasn't denying it anymore. Yes, he was confident but it wasn't enough. He lacked the aggression and the resolve to win his matches. Edge was right. Where was the John Cena who used to kick ass and take names? Where was the John Cena who had defeated those legends who were now Hall of Famers?

_Wake up!_

Edge's voice rang inside the CeNation leader's head, making him close his eyes and flinch as his stomach gave a slight twist. Seriously, that guy really knew how to kick his nerves up. He got to hand it to the guy, though. Edge knew when to show up and get his head back in the game. Just heck of a timing he did, John thought with a little headshake. He really should catch up with the guy and thank him for what he did for him tonight.

"You know, it's so quiet in this room I can actually hear you thinking."

And yes of course, there was one guy that he had to thank the most.

"You know, Punk, you really should stop sneaking up on people."

There was a chuckle coming from behind him and turning his head, he found Punk leaning on one of the lockers, his hands deep in his pockets. Just seeing the guy made John's face break into a face-splitting grin and that was a thing that he still couldn't understand one bit.

"Hey, what can I do?" Punk said as he heaved himself from the locker he was leaning on. "I'm like a fucking ninja."

Suppressing the urge to chuckle, John merely shook his head in reply. "What are you doing here, sweetie?"

And in a split of a second, Punk's face turned beet red, making John laugh out loud this time. In some surprising but really peculiar way exactly a week ago, he had found himself addressing Punk in these ridiculous and ultimately cheesy names like honey, dear and most recently, sweetie. The first time he did Punk nearly shoved him through the concrete walls of the hallway to his hotel room and John couldn't do anything but laugh hysterically at the man's flushed face. Don't get him wrong, he wasn't doing it 'cause he was corny enough to be all lovey-dovey with the guy; he wasn't even really sure if he was falling for the younger man. It was all to make Punk blush in obvious embarrassment and just to mess with him. Nothing personal. Although he had to admit, it was rewarding on his part to call Punk in a way that no one would ever dare call him.

"Don't call me that, you poor excuse for a power ranger," the smaller man spat at him and it just made him laugh more. "Jesus, you sound like my mom, you ass."

"That's it, really?" John asked as he tried to recover from the laughing fit he was having. "'Poor excuse for a power ranger'? Darling, you need to think of a better way to piss me off now."

The word 'darling' obviously made Punk flip out and the champion threw both of his palms right on his face, covering his eyes and the blush in his cheeks. "What the fuck, dude, I shouldn't have come here."

"Hey, you know that I'm just joking," John said as soon as Punk had turned back toward the door. At least what he said had stopped the guy from going out of the room. "Kidding aside, what are you still doing here?"

Turning back to him, Punk walked to the bench where John was seated and made a move to grab his bag that was seated beside the bigger man. "You know, I should be asking you the same thing. I thought you left with the guys after that mini-celebration we had in the ring."

Then there was a large grin spreading across the CeNation leader's face and he didn't even bother hiding it from the straight-edge savior. In all honesty, he was still in shock. Never in his entire life in the WWE did he expect a guy like CM Punk to gather all the superstars he could, even the current and former COOs of the company, and have them sing him a Happy Birthday along with the crowd. His heart swelled in gratitude – he never expected anyone to prepare something as special as that, especially someone who barely gave a fuck about him two months ago.

"We did. Had a few drinks but I left early," John answered as he stood to follow Punk who was on his way to the door with his things. "I just came back to get this." Then he raised the lock and chain that was wrapped around his fist.

Punk gave him a look. "You skipped your own birthday celebration because of a lock and a chain."

"Why does it sound awful when you say it?" John let out an exasperated sigh and his shoulders sagged. "I need something like a reminder. And I kinda miss carrying this around. Makes me feel like the rookie that I was back in the day."

"You mean like the rapper wannabe that you were back in the day?"

The smart smile on John's face was gone in a second, replaced by a scowl that had Punk sniggering as he walked. "Wow, thanks a lot for ruining it, kid."

Punk threw his head back and let out a loud "Hah!" and John was expecting to see him jump up and down in amusement. Sometimes this guy could really piss the hell out of him without even trying, he thought. When his mood didn't change, he felt a knuckle on his arm, hitting him lightly and he turned to Punk who had an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm kidding, Cena. Don't be such a party pooper."

And no matter how much John tried to suppress a grin, he felt the corner of his lips turn up into a smile. Really. He couldn't even keep a straight face when it came to this guy. "Fine, but you should know that you have to at least respect me. I'm older than you."

Punk snorted. "Yeah, like a year and six months older than me. Don't be so giddy just 'cause it's your birthday today."

"Hey, as far as I know, I can do anything I can since it's my birthday."

"Well you got thirty minutes left before your birthday comes to an end."

John let out a chuckle but he didn't say a word after that. He merely watched the man in front of him lead the way to the parking lot, blabbering about things that he wasn't even listening to. His head wandered about, drifting on thoughts like spending the last minute of his birthday by watching the game all night long, or actually sleeping through it alone. But he didn't want to be alone. For the past eight years he had spent his birthday in a bar with his friends celebrating with him. This time he skipped on them and chose to wait for this guy with him instead.

The guy who was holding out a hand to him and if it wasn't for the fingers snapping in front of his eyes, he would have stayed in his thoughts for a while.

"Wake up, Johnboy," Punk called out to him as he continued to snap his fingers. John blinked twice before he returned to reality.

"Yeah, what?"

"Your car keys," Punk said with an impatient huff. "I'm not letting you drive; you said you had a few drinks tonight. And don't try defending yourself by saying it was just a few; I still don't trust people who are under the influence of alcohol even if it's you."

Chuckling to himself, John fished his keys from his pockets, throwing it at Punk as he walked to the passenger seat of his car. "Wait a minute, why are you driving me back to the hotel? Aren't you supposed to be with your road wife right now?" John asked as he got in the vehicle.

After throwing John's duffel bag in the backseat, Punk got in the car and looked at John with wide eyes. "You mean Kofi? I let him go on first. And what's this thing about him being my road wife? He doesn't even stay in the bus that much unless we're traveling far – oh wait a minute."

"What?" John asked all of a sudden, somehow a bit surprised at Punk's change of reaction. The other guy merely gave him a look, a smug look at that, and John was somehow regretful about ever bringing up the topic.

"Are you jealous 'cause I'm calling someone else my 'road wife'?"

There wasn't denying that John felt his blood rush up to his face so fast that he had the urge to hide them away with his hands. But the question was enough to make him freeze on his seat, blinking at the man, halfway through buckling his seat belt. Fuck, was that too obvious?

"The fuck you talkin' about, man?" He had to look away and shake his head. He got to admit, his voice betrayed him. And it seemed that the other guy noticed it too for he could hear him snickering as he started the car.

"I'm talking about you being jealous of Kofi 'cause he's my road wife."

The statement almost had him jumping off his seat. Probably because of guilt, and the little feeling of someone finding out a deep, dark secret. Even so, he still tried to keep a confused face, acting all ridiculed about being accused of being jealous of someone he didn't talk to that much. Although inside him, he was already exploding and his heart hammered madly in his chest.

"Why would I be jealous of Kingston?" He kept his voice cheerful, almost incredulous and damn it made everything sound worse than a lie. Yep. Made him sound more like he was in denial. "Who wants to get stuck in a bus traveling with a guy like you?"

There was a playful smirk on the straight-edge savior's face as he glanced at him before turning back on the road, driving in a moderate speed as they made their way back to the hotel. "Of course you would. You like me, after all."

John snorted, letting out a forced laugh. "Please. You better stop stroking your ego, man. From what I remember, you were the one who said you like me, right?"

It was his turn to smirk at the man, who seemed to have resorted to gluing his eyes down the road, cheeks tinted with a bright shade of red. The sight almost made him want to cackle but he chose to let go of the reaction, knowing well that if he didn't, the night would surely end up with him getting thrown out of the car or getting punched in the nuts. Either didn't sound too good, so with a faint smile on his face, he let his head rest on the surface of the windshield, staring out on the road, feeling a bit smug but pleased. Even if Punk didn't admit it, John would always keep it to himself that the man's sudden confession in the ring meant more than just a compliment from another co-worker.

"…it's not a big deal, anyways."

Blinking as he lifted his head from the windshield, John turned to Punk again, a bit surprised for not noticing the man speak. Guess he was just that deep in his thoughts. "What was that?"

The Champion gave him a quick glance before turning back on the road, cheeks flushing a bit deeper than before. "Said it was true when I said I like you. 'Cause. You know. In this company, you're the only guy who can listen and deal with my bullshit without getting annoyed with me." He paused for a while, and when John didn't respond to that, he cleared his throat. "Just so you know, I appreciate that."

It took him every ounce of will not to crack a smile at the words, successfully managing a small nod and a somewhat forced chuckle, though in his chest, his heart felt like a bird frantically trying to get out of its cage. And he wasn't really sure why he was feeling like this. He had received compliments before, even from legends and well-known people, but he couldn't figure out why he felt so happy hearing the words from a co-worker, to whom he had feuded with for quite a short amount of time. For all he knew, Punk didn't give a damn about him, and the logical reaction was for him to not give two shits about him either. But for the past weeks that they had hanged out, he guessed that maybe change wasn't so bad after all.

Or. You know. Maybe having a crush on the guy wasn't so bad after all.

"No problem, man," he answered with a small smile, looking out the window again. "I'm kind of used to it, since I've experienced dealing with a quite stubborn guy before. And I managed to handle him quite expertly."

Punk snorted, slowing down as they neared the hotel's parking lot. "Really? I don't think Orton's as stubborn and hard headed as me though."

"Oh. No, no, it's not Orton, no." He let out a chuckle after saying that, shaking his head lightly. "As surprising as it may seem, Randy's a listener. And obedient, I have to admit. I was actually talking about Edge."

The younger man blinked at that, glancing towards the Cenation leader once more. John continued to stare outside though, smiling lightly to himself as some of the memories flashed before his eyes. It might not seem obvious, but he and Edge were quite close. Much closer than people knew, actually.

"Really?" Punk inquired as he parked the rental just near the exterior door of the hotel. "Wasn't really expecting Edge to be stubborn. More like a psycho but bull headed like me? No." He let out a sarcastic laugh, killing the engine of the car and unbuckling his seatbelt. "Also didn't expect you to be best friends with the Rated R Superstar."

This time, John snorted, responding offhandedly as he pulled off his own seatbelt. "Me and Edge? Nah. We're not best friends. We did use to sleep together, but best friends? Please."

By the time he realized that there was something wrong with the statement that came out of his mouth, Punk was already staring at him with slightly wide eyes, his jaw dropped slightly, brows creased in a frown. Oh boy. John's stomach gave a painful twist, heart dropping from where it was hanging. Great. Just fucking great. Why of all the damn things that he could blurt out, it had to be that thing? He tried to find his voice, gulping slightly, thinking of a great lie to cover the statement that he just uttered without thinking. But there was nothing to cover anymore. The words were loud and clear. It would just end up with him looking desperate if he tried making up a story just to defend himself.

"You're sleeping with Edge?" Punk asked out of the blue, slight disappointment coloring his tone. Or maybe John was just imagining it, he wasn't sure. He was certain with his reply, though, although his tone came out a bit defensively.

"No! I said used to. We stopped fooling around after he retired." His voice faltered with guilt, a sigh coming out of his lips as he took off his cap, running a hand through his growing hair. It kind of confused him though, he had to say, to find the man walking down the ramp, getting back in the ring with him only to lecture him. His words were accurate. They only fooled around. But to see Edge addressing to him after months of loss of contact, it made him wonder if their little affair was more than just a normal fling.

"Oh. So you're not sleeping with him anymore."

Another scrape in his stomach. It sounded so weird coming out from the man. "No. Not anymore, no."

"Well, alright."

Punk's voice was straight, somehow void with emotion and before John had the chance to speak for himself, the champion was already stepping out of the car, closing the door, leaving John inside. Not knowing what else to do, he followed suit, getting out of the rental and following the other back in the hotel. Neither man spoke a word as they made their way to the elevator, the awkward stillness almost suffocating the older man. He couldn't even glance at the other without feeling his guts tying a painful knot inside of him.

And the awkward silence continued as they walked down the hallway to their rooms, John's hands stuffed nervously in his pockets, fingers rubbing as he thought of something to talk about. Something. Anything. Just to ease his head of the racing thoughts of Punk hating him for keeping something as serious as that. To no avail, however, they made it to his hotel room without one speaking a word, instead, a shaky sigh escaping him as he flashed a forced smile towards the younger man. "Well. This is my stop."

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Punk blinked at the screen and shrugged at John, his face calm. Opposite to what John was expecting to see. "Hey, it's still five minutes before your birthday ends." And then he was returning John's smile with a sincere one, a sight that made John's heart jump just a bit. Maybe he was overthinking again. Punk wouldn't hate him and stop being friends with him just because he found out he was sleeping with a man. Punk was a better guy than that.

"And boy am I glad to spend the rest of the minutes with you."

Okay, so maybe he just really needed to shut his talking hole and duck inside his room without another word. But somehow, Punk was chuckling, lip ring glinting slightly despite the dim hallway. "You're such a dork."

And that made John chuckle in return, shaking his head as he reached for the bag Punk was carrying. "Always the biggest dork you'll ever know."

Lightly taking the bag out of the man's grasp, he felt warm fingers wrap around his hand, causing him to blink down at it and watch as the tattooed hand enclosed his knuckles lightly, the move making him lift his gaze at the other in slight surprise. But he didn't have time to ask why or what he was doing for suddenly, his face was too close, his breath warm against his skin, moving even closer until he felt warm, plump lips touching his. It was a brief moment of contact, lips pressed in a soft kiss, which he barely had time to return for Punk was slowly pulling away, whispering in a soft voice.

"Happy birthday, Johnboy."

And then, he was watching him walk away, too stunned to even say something about what just happened, the corner of his lips tugging up in a small, flustered smile, shaking his head as he opened his hotel room with a chuckle.

For once in a very long time, he went into a peaceful sleep, deep in his slumber with a faint smile on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**I blame school for the late update, really. But before anything else, I'd like to thank you guys for the reviews. They keep me motivated in updating this fic XD I hope you enjoy reading and comments are always welcome!

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><p>He was all sweaty, clammy and sticky, not to mention that he was panting and his hair was all over the place but there was no word in the whole world that could describe how he felt the moment the referee slammed his palm on the mat for three uninterrupted times. His heart melted at the sight of his friends, especially his family, cheering for him, clapping their hands in regards to his success. It was like hitting two birds in one stone; only thing was that he hit more than a couple of metaphorical flying animals. One, he retained the WWE Championship. Two, he defeated and shut Jericho up with all he got. Three, he made his family proud by sticking with what he believed in. Four, he made his hometown proud by winning in a Chicago Street Fight.<p>

Adrenaline slowly leaving his bloodstream Punk patted the championship belt in his hands as he walked backstage with a smile on his face. A really happy smile, at that note. The pain crawling up and down his body wasn't even making him flinch anymore for inside his head he was only thinking of celebrating his win with his family and friends.

Every now and then as he walked down the hall to his locker he met superstars in the hallway, congratulating him with a smile and a shake of a hand. Punk felt so pleased with himself that he wasn't making any sarcastic comments or cocky quips for an answer and for the first time in a long time, he was shaking their hands back and actually saying the words "Thank you" in reply. They were nothing, though, compared to the sudden weight jumping on him, driving his back to the concrete wall and knocking the air out of him for a second.

Punk was shocked at first but he cracked a wholehearted smile once he knew who it was who hugged him all of a sudden, and he placed a hand on the person's head, patting the hair lightly.

"Come on, sis, you're going to give me a heart attack."

His little sister lifted her head, letting him see her puffy eyes and one big smile on her face. "You were so awesome back there, Phil!"

"Of course I was," he said as he placed his hands on Chaleen's shoulders, separating them from each other. "I'm the best in the world."

And then there was a hand slapping his slightly sore elbow, making his mouth open in a silent "Ow!" and then he was being hugged again, this time from the side. "You had me and Ma worried back there."

Chaleen's face was hidden from his sight but Punk was sure she was trying her best not to cry. It had always been like this since she was little; whenever she would show signs of tearing up, he would tease her for being a crybaby and she wouldn't have a choice but keep her tears in. Reminiscing the better parts of his younger days, Punk stroked Chaleen's hair, smiling genuinely at the concern he was seeing from his sister.

"Well, I won, didn't I? No use crying about that anymore, Chaleen."

She lifted her head again, this time with a scowl on her face. "I'm not crying."

"Of course you're not," Punk answered, making the sarcasm obvious in his tone. Barely dodging another slap to his aching elbow, he started walking to the locker room with the woman by his side. "Speaking of Mom, where is she?"

"She's still at the seats with Chez and Cas. She said she's taking us out for ice cream after the show."

If only his body wasn't aching so badly right now, he would have lifted his hands up and done a "Yes" chant out of glee when he heard what his little sister just said. Instead he gave her a grateful smile, a thing that he almost never did, and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Thanks. Not only for the ice cream, most definitely not only because you came here to watch, but also, thank you, little sis, for laying a hand on Chris Jericho's face."

Chaleen giggled at that and then there was a smirk on her face. "He had it coming," she said and that just made Punk more proud. "I hope that served him a lesson."

"Certainly it did!" Punk replied mockingly as if telling her that what she said was absurd. "With the size of your hand hitting him flatly on his cheek I bet your fingers would be imprinted on his skin for eternity!"

"Phil!"

He moved a huge step away from her just to evade the fist that was threatening to hit the small of his back and he stuck his tongue out just to annoy his little sister. He missed this, he had to admit. Being the irritating big brother who always made his little sister cry, laughing in success whenever there was a scowl or a pout on her face. They may be grown-ups now but sometimes it felt good to act like his annoying older brother again. Well, that was if you set aside the dark side of his childhood that he himself would never want to remember again.

"There you are!"

The voice bounced around the walls around them and it had Punk's heart jumping in his ribs. Not because he was surprised but because he knew whose voice that belonged to. For that reason, Punk made a move to grab her sister away from the place but he was too late. There was a body almost tackling him to the ground, making him take a step back in shock but that didn't stop the man from wrapping his body with his bulky arms. Punk didn't know if he couldn't breathe because of the hug or because of the butterflies attacking his guts.

"I knew you could do it, Punk! I'm so glad you won!"

"O-okay, thank you, John, you can let me go now."

"I'm so proud of you, kid. That was one hell of a show you just did!"

"No, seriously John I can't breathe."

That must have put some sense into John for he let go of Punk in a second, his face giving him a sorry smile. Punk would have wanted to roll his eyes or throw a sarcastic remark at that but he couldn't even look John in the eye without recalling the kiss that he gave him the night of his birthday. Yes, it was unexpected, yes, it was uncalled for and yes, he didn't know what he was thinking but he couldn't get it out of his head. He had been having sleepless nights thinking of how to confront the guy if ever he were asked why he did it. Frankly speaking, he still didn't have a convincing answer aside from 'I don't know, but I wanted to'.

And John's current distance with him wasn't helping with his dilemma at all.

Although it seemed that the guy forgot all about it. John still acted like the same John Cena that he had always been. There weren't any hints of question in his eyes, even the slightest mention of awkwardness in his behavior. Hey, at least the guy had to feel uncomfortable. Still, Cena didn't even cringe while invading his personal space. For example, the man's right arm coiled around the back of his neck, the side of his body burning against the champion's back. With this distance Punk could smell the aftershave or the bodywash or whatever perfume he used on his body. It wasn't really making him uncomfortable but there was this heat starting to grow inside his stomach and somehow Punk's worried that because of it there would be chances that he would either shove John away from him or pounce on him right in front of his sister.

Oh right, his sister.

"Hey, you're Punk's sister, right?"

Oops. Looked like John beat him to it.

"Yes, I am." She held out a hand which John shook with his left, leaving the right arm unmoving over Punk's shoulders. "My name's Chaleen."

"Ah, so that's what your name is," then the older man added as an afterthought. "This guy never tells me anything. I'm assuming you already know me, right?"

Chaleen nodded almost enthusiastically. "Yeah, of course. It's like I already know you in person since Phil's been talking about you –"

Okay, that was out of line! As soon as he could, Punk glared at Chaleen with the best that he could do just to get her attention. If it were even possible he would have used every expression he was aware of just to stop her from talking at all.

"—what I mean is, since _I've_ been searching about you from the internet just because I really like you so much. And Phil has nothing to do with it. I swear."

Punk, who was holding his breath, let out a quiet sigh, feeling a little bit relieved. Well, that was until he heard – more like felt – a chuckle from the guy next to him. What made it worse was the fucking grin that John was giving him. "Sure. Let's just say that _Phil_ wasn't talking about me at all."

There was something in the way John said his real name that made his heart drop down to his stomach. "Yes, fine, I admit, I may have said a thing or two about you like how much of a dork, a goof and an asskisser you are. Also how freaking stupid you look in your Power Ranger T-shirts and how oblivious you are to sarcasm."

"Hey, I am a great asskisser," John replied sardonically. "And in case you didn't notice, that was sarcasm."

That had Chaleen laughing but Punk merely rolled his eyes. He felt like smashing his head against a steel post or something.

"I think I should go, Phil," His sister suddenly said, making Punk's mouth open in protest. "I'll see you after the show."

"No, don't, stay here."

It surprised Punk that the voice didn't come from him. Just then he felt the weight leave from his shoulders and he found himself looking at John who was slowly moving away from him. The guy placed his hands inside his pockets and his dimples appeared again for the millionth time as he smiled at his little sister.

"I'll be going, anyway. Diva's match wouldn't last much long so I gotta prepare for my match with Lesnar."

That claim had Punk frowning like he was a kid who couldn't understand a thing written down in the classroom blackboard. John would be having his match in a few minutes. It was Brock Lesnar he was facing. He was aware that John assured him of his win, but Punk himself wasn't sure. There was a hollow feeling in his chest as he looked at the CeNation leader, who was exchanging goodbyes with Chaleen at the moment. And then he was looking at him, straight in the eyes, blue on hazel, former champion to current champion.

"So," John said, smiling at him. "Wish me luck."

"Don't give me that. Luck's for losers."

John shook his head and laughed. "Come on, Punk. Just this once."

Punk's shoulders sagged and he sighed. "Fine. Do your best. And I don't accept loss."

"That's better. Now I don't want to see you walking down the ramp and stopping the match, alright? This is my match, not yours." And John gave him a smile that could light up half of the earth even without the sun's presence. Nodding to him then to Chaleen, he continued. "See you around. And I'd like to meet your mother soon, too."

"You ass," was Punk's simple reply. He wished he could have said something more than that, perhaps encouraging words that would definitely put him out of character, but he kept silent as he watched John take a step away, another step, and then another. And then Punk couldn't stop himself anymore.

"Hey John," Punk called out, nearly running to him in case the guy didn't hear him. John stopped nonetheless, looking back at him with a slightly surprised face. Once in front of the man, however, he found himself out of words. John was patient, though, and he quietly watched Punk as he struggled for something to say.

And then Punk found the right words.

_Don't go._

"Are you going to keep staring at my face or what?"

"Shut up, Cena."

"Okay, but you got something to say?"

Punk felt all his blood rush to his cheeks but he didn't mind it anymore.

_Don't go. Please don't go._

"Don't die in there."

John laughed at that and Punk thought that the guy was going to continue walking after that. Then he felt a knuckle being placed lightly right on the middle of his chest, much like what he did to John after punching a metal locker out of anger two weeks ago. Looking up at the man in surprise, his heart skipped a beat when the older man leaned closer and touched his forehead with his.

With a dimpled smile that could possibly kill millions of people in Punk's opinion, John looked into his eyes and said, "You worry about me too much, Phil."

And with that, John took a step back and turned on his heels, walking away without turning back. Punk watched him from afar, an unsettling feeling residing in his stomach as he watched John's back disappear to the gorilla. Seeing John walk away like that made it worse; it was like he was already watching how John would disappear in his life. He knew he was jumping to conclusions – well, more like overreacting or perhaps overthinking things again – but why did it feel like things were going to change after tonight?

"You know you should really tell him how you feel before it's too late."

Giving his sister a glance, Punk gave her an incredulous look. "What are you talking about?"

Chaleen placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head. "Phil, I may be years younger than you but I know it when you like someone."

"You've been reading too many fan fictions, Chaleen." And still unconvinced, partly distracted with his thoughts, Punk went on walking with his sister tagging along behind him.

"I may have read some but trust me, Phil. I know what ticks you off and what makes you glad."

Slowing his steps down until he finally stopped, he eyed his sister and when he found the serious expression on her face, he finally gave up. She was right, anyway. There was no use in denying that. "I'm not sure. Maybe I have feelings for him, maybe I don't, but right now, I just want him to get through this."

"He will, I'm sure," Chaleen said while placing a hand on his shoulder. "And I can see it in his eyes that he's doing it for you."

There was a twist in Punk's stomach again. It didn't matter if John lost or won tonight 'cause either way he was going to be fired. That was what Punk had been worried about since John told him what Laurainitis had been planning for him. The idea was plausible since it was Brock Lesnar that John was going to face. It had Punk worrying more and then he found himself looking back down the hallway. Was this going to be the last time he'd see John walk down the aisle to the ring?

"He's going to be fine, Phil."

Punk nodded at his sister and proceeded to his locker room.

Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something bad was going to happen tonight.

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><p>The first sight of blood on John's head made Punk's stomach turn in disgust. There was a TV hanging above the corner of the locker room and the straight-edge savior kept his eyes on the screen, the tip of his thumb stuck between his teeth. He couldn't take what he was seeing anymore; it was like watching a lion prey on a deer for dinner. It was a good thing that he was the only one left in the locker room for all the superstars were at the gorilla watching John's match and Chaleen had gone back to the seats with the family; at least no one got to see how worried he reacted whenever John got tackled by this beast he was facing.<p>

The match lasted for almost thirty minutes, which meant that Punk had been standing on his feet, biting on his thumb for almost thirty minutes as well. But at least he let out a sigh in relief when John got back at Lesnar and struck him with his chain-clad fist. Much more relief when the referee had counted three on Brock's almost unconscious body. Punk thought everything was okay now and there was nothing to worry about.

Then John started asking for a microphone and started his speech.

A speech that made Punk's mouth hang open and his hands fall lifelessly on his sides. A speech that had him shouting "Fuck!" over and over again. A speech that had him running from the locker room to the backstage hallway at full speed.

Sure enough when Punk got to the gorilla everyone from the locker room was on their feet, silently watching John as he slowly walked from the curtains with the medics following right behind him. It seemed like the CeNation leader still had enough pride not to let himself be taken away in such a vulnerable fashion like being carried by the medical team. It only made Punk curse at the guy's stupidity. Most of the superstars were quiet, some of them smiled sympathetically at Cena while others gave him a pat on the shoulder. The medics were running to Punk's direction while giving out orders to grab John's stuff from the locker room. He didn't know if he should describe it as chaotic or just plain sad.

It took moments before Punk finally stepped forward and showed himself to Cena who was walking slowly as if he was still in a daze. The guy looked horrible and Punk was already shaking in anger and worry upon seeing John's current state.

"John," he called out, making heads turn to him as he approached the bigger man but he paid attention only to John who looked up at him. "Are you fine? What happened? You looked fine back there so how –"

Punk hadn't even stopped walking yet when he felt John's hand on the back of his head, pulling him and interrupting him with his interrogation as their lips crashed together, shutting Punk up all of a sudden. He could hear some of the people around them gasp at the sight but he was most sure that all of their heads are on them right now. But since when did CM Punk give a fuck about anyone? Oh that's right, only when John Cena came along and ruined his life.

He could taste the blood on John's lips but he didn't mind it. Instead he let everything go and kissed John back with all he got, not letting any second pass by anymore. Placing a hand on John's jaw he poured everything into the kiss: his anger, his fears, his feelings for the man kissing him right now. He wanted this to last, wanted this to never stop because after this, he knew what was going to happen. He knew once he let go, that would be it.

But everything had an end.

It was John who broke the kiss but the hand on the back of Punk's neck didn't go away. Then for the second time that night, John placed his forehead on top of Punk's and with this closeness the younger man could see the love and care in his eyes. He felt overwhelmed, undone with the way John had been looking at him. Shortly after that, John was smiling at him in a way that Punk had found himself smiling back.

"I'm sorry sir but we need to take Mr. Cena to the hospital right now."

That must have been the cue for John finally backed away, his hand patting Punk gently on the cheek, whispering "Thank you," before walking away with the medical team.

For the second time that night, Punk found himself silently watching John as he disappeared from the hallway. But this time, he wasn't sure if he would be seeing him again.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Sooooo I'm still alive~ And I got a break from school so I had time to post this one up. Please don't be mad at me (although I think you people are already killing me in your heads)! To those who are still reading and reviewing this fic, thank you so much! I'll have the next chapter posted as soon as possible~

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><p>His head was a blank slate. No matter how hard he pushed himself to think of any concrete thought about his current condition, his brain would shut down and he would find himself gazing down at the marbled floor, blue eyes tracing the patterns on the ground beneath his black tennis shoes. It was pretty uncanny for him to be like this; usually he was the kind of guy who was good on thinking on his feet. And though he was a bit positive that he had no clue why he was behaving like this, he had a small hunch that the throbbing pain in his arm making its way to his head had something to do with his state of hollowness. Or perhaps it was the small, twisting feeling in his gut that was making his insides hurt, a coiling sensation knotting in his stomach that usually meant he was regretting something that he had done.<p>

"…in your head, Mr. Cena?"

It took a moment before he realized that the trainer was talking and doing the best he could to gain his focus, he blinked lifelessly at the medic, voice hesitant as he asked, "What was that?"

"I asked if you feel something in your head." The man looked at him for a while, expecting an answer but when the Cenation leader continued to blink at him, he added, "Any throbbing pain, feeling dizzy, anything ringing in your ear?"

John shook his head slowly in reply, studying himself quietly as he did. He didn't feel anything else except the scraping in his stomach and his still sore arm. "Temple's throbbing, though." Raising a hand to his head, he tapped on his right temple with his finger, dropping the hand tiredly on his lap.

Doing this, he only realized that the trainer was done bandaging up his bad arm, the already strained arm that good ol' Johnny Laurinaitis ever so wonderfully beat up an hour ago in the ring. The strained arm that he thought Brock Lesnar had successfully snapped into half the night before. Who wouldn't have jumped to that conclusion, anyway? The main event was brutal. Although he did his best to win the match, which he came out of, alive and victorious, he was pretty sure that his arm had stopped functioning on him by the time he was pinning the MMA fighter down the steel steps. But with his head scraped and bloodied by his brute opponent, arm hanging limply on his side, he gathered his remaining strength to give a farewell speech. A last address to the fans: a thing that no one in the roster or in the creative staff was expecting for him to do.

It was unexpected. He wasn't even intending to do it, but because of what his boss had revealed to him a couple of weeks ago, he guessed that giving one last speech was just right. If he really was going to be kicked out of the business that he loved more than his life, he was going out with his head held up high, despite the bruises and the lame arm dangling from his weary shoulder.

His mind was already made up, convinced that his arm was positively broken, but then the results came in, and it came out to be nothing more than a muscle strain. No other thought came in his mind after that, except that no matter what happened, he needed to get back in the ring.

He wasn't expecting that to be a bad decision.

"You don't seem to have any concussions," the trainer said, interrupting John with his deep thoughts. He was setting his items aside, bandages and towels and packs of ice that was used to treat his abused muscles. "But your arm's badly beaten up. Ice it for a few days then have it checked by a professional. If you feel any pain, painkillers will help."

John glanced at the said arm and sighed, perhaps in relief. No broken bones. Just a few days of rest and he would be fine. "Thank you," he muttered to the medic, who gave him an easy smile.

"Take it easy, Cena. We know you're the face of the company, but you deserve a break, too."

Blinking at the piece of advice he received from the man, he offered a light smile before getting onto his feet, grabbing his green Cenation cap and placing it over his head, tipping the brim at the trainer as a sign of gratitude before heading out of the room. Right after walking out the door, however, his smile slowly faded, free hand moving inside his pocket as he took slow steps towards the roster's locker room. He needed to grab his stuff before he got back to the hotel, or wherever he was supposed to be staying that night, seeing that with the condition of his arm, he might have to take that flight to Tampa after all so he can lie for a few days, maybe take the trainer's advice. They did know what was best to his body, right?

With his mind still undecided, he opened the door to the locker room, somehow relieved to find it unlocked, considering that it was almost midnight at that time. In some arenas, he wasn't so lucky. One out of three times he would find the door bolted, and he would have to ask the staff to open the room for him so that he could fetch his stuff. Thankfully he didn't have to do that at the moment. Which was more convenient because he really needed to go home soon, pass out and forget everything about this stupid, horrible day.

As he swung the door open, though, his mind took a 360-degree turn and he suddenly hoped that the trainer took a longer time to mend his strained arm.

Inside the locker room, leaning over one of the benches was CM Punk, hunched over the counter as he got his stuff ready, tattooed hands carefully placing his worn wrestling gear inside his sports bag. And for a long while, John stood there, mind blank again, heart suddenly picking up its pace. There he was. The guy he came back for. The reason why he wanted to get back in the ring as soon as he could. But then he couldn't find his voice, yet the courage to speak. Instead, millions of questions ran through his mind and it almost made him want to retreat. To hastily grab his stuff and leave before the other noticed that it was him.

That actually sounded like a good plan to him for he found himself walking beside Punk, his good hand reaching for the strap of his duffel bag, heart drumming in his chest as he braced himself from the champion's questions, asking for answers to his previous actions. About the speech he made last night…about that kiss… But none of them came. Except silence and Punk's unnerving nonchalance.

John's heart sank. It would have been so much better if the guy was right in his face right now, screaming at him, forcing an answer out of him, getting physical and all. Not like this. Because Punk was giving him the silent treatment, hands not rushing, not slowing down as he got his stuff ready. And not once. Not once had the other man tried to give him a glance. It made John's stomach churn. It was like he was transported back in time, sometime around a year ago when none of them cared about each other. But that was wrong. They did care, right? They grew closer in the span of weeks. They grew close. Somehow closer than friends.

Or was that him living in some sort of fantasy?

Having none of the stillness of the younger man, John dropped his hold from his bag and let out a deep breath. This was it. Now or never.

"Punk—"

"Don't talk to me."

…well. There was that.

John blinked. What had gotten Punk upset with him? He came back, right? He was fine. Laurinaitis wasn't successful in trying to terminate him with the use of a monster in the form of Brock Lesnar. Maybe he did something wrong last night, but what could it be? All he did was beat Lesnar, come backstage through the curtains, find Punk making his way to him and give him a kiss before following the medics and trainers to the hospital.

Oh. Okay, maybe now he saw what was wrong with that statement.

By the time that he realized it, however, Punk was already swinging his bag over his shoulder and turning on his heels as he turned to the door. Instinct flooding in John's mind at the moment, he reached out and took hold of the man's arm, stopping him from his tracks, focusing on fixing everything before it was too late. He wouldn't let this go without clearing the air between them. He couldn't just let him go this way.

"Just listen to me—"

"I've heard enough of your speech last night, Cena." Punk's tone was snappy, but he still didn't give John a glance. He merely shifted his eyes on the older man's hand that was grasping his arm and kept his gaze there. It made John more uneasy. He definitely couldn't just let it go like this.

"No, I'm sorry," John said with a surprisingly calm voice, despite the rush of nervousness filling his gut. "I should have given it much thought before I came up and kissed you like that. I wasn't aware that most of the roster was watching backstage—"

And John stopped talking after that. It didn't take words or any sort of movement from the straight-edge savior to have his mouth shut in midsentence, except narrowed, hazel-green eyes finally lifting to meet his own bright blue irises, the simple eye contact causing his heart to sink down to his gut at an alarming rate. With that alone, he knew that he had done something far worse than kissing the man in public, despite not knowing exactly what it was. That didn't matter to him at all, he thought as he gazed back at Punk's heavy and tired eyes. John was going to fix it. Even if that meant he had to risk the chance of never being able to talk to the man for good.

An incredulous and obviously sarcastic chuckle came out of Punk's lips. And then, he started talking, voice clearly annoyed and frustrated. "You think this is about the kiss? You think this is about you suddenly grabbing me from out of the blue and kissing me in front of other people? If you think that's as shallow as I can get, Cena, then you don't deserve to be talking to me at all."

Punk shrugged John's hand off his arm with an angry huff, face turned into an angry glare as he turned on his heels, heading for the door once more. This time, it was John who was slowly losing his temper, his fist now clenched at his side, despite the full efforts of keeping himself calm. And he thought he was successful with it. Instead, he found his voice rising exasperation, hand shaking on his side, resisting the urge to go to the nearest wall and strike his knuckles on its cemented surface.

"Then why are you mad at me?"

Punk stopped on his tracks but it didn't take more than a split second before he turned around again, face all red, brows furrowed in a deep, livid glower. He took a step towards John, slowly, almost in a stalking pace, his tone near accusing as he spoke. "You fucker can't even think of the reason why I'm mad at you? _God_, how can you be so fucking _thick_?"

The man raised his own fists, as if attempting to break the nearest thing he could see, and John was quite sure that it didn't matter even if it was a thing or a person. But he stood his ground. He had to listen if he wanted to know what was wrong.

Eventually, Punk lowered his hands and stepped towards the Cenation leader once more but this time, all the sarcasm in his tone was gone, now replaced by pure rage and emotion as he literally screamed in John's face. "What was that speech last night all about, huh? You might be going for a while? Thanking everyone for _one hell of a last ride_?" His face was now threatening close with the other, just like how they stared down at each other in the ring back when they were pitted against each other. This time, though, Punk prodded John's chest with every word that came out of his lips. "You damn bastard told me you're not letting Ace get what he wanted but you fucking handed it to him on a shiny, silver plate! I thought you knew how to keep promises, Cena. I thought you were a better man than that—"

The claim had the older man narrowing his own eyes and next thing he knew, he was batting Punk's hand away, temper rising by a notch. "But I came back. I stood in the ring tonight and had a match set up for me—"

"Oh, and you think that's good?" Punk pointed a finger at the door, emphasizing the showground outside. "That you go to work the next day with a sling on your arm and a smile on your face after telling everyone that you may be done for good?"

"Wait a second here," John said in a lowered voice, heart plummeting down to his stomach. _Punk wasn't happy that I'm back? _He felt his body shake but he didn't let it show, despite the small cracking on his voice as he resumed speaking. "Did _you_ want me done for good? What? You think I'm going to come after the championship once I'm done with Laurinaitis?" He let out a scoffing chuckle. "Are you _scared_ that I'll come after _you_ and your precious championship belt?"

A hand grabbed the collar of his green shirt, fisting the material in a threatening way as Punk got in John's face again, jaw clenched for a while before he started to talk once more. "You don't really get it, do you? It _hurt_ to think that you're not coming back. I was scared all night thinking of what I'm supposed to do when you're gone. And then you fucking step back in the ring like nothing happened? You can't just play with my feelings like that, John Cena!" He gripped tighter on his shirt, shaking fingers curling around the cloth. "Can't you see where I'm going with this? I'm fucking _in love_ with you!"

It took John quite a while before the words had finally sunk inside his head, but when it did, it rendered him speechless. At first he thought it was his head brain playing tricks on him, but he knew what he heard, and it made his heart skip a beat, had the words leaving him with nothing but racing thoughts. "I-I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I love you, John," Punk repeated, much firmer than before. "And if you think you can exploit my feelings like this then I don't think you deserve to be talking to me at all."

But John didn't hear anything else after the first few words. Stretching out his good arm, he took hold of the back of the man's head, pulling him in a desperate kiss. It didn't take more than a second before Punk was throwing his arms around John's neck in return, kissing back demandingly, knocking the larger man's cap off his head, but he didn't notice it in the rush of emotions filling him as he kissed the younger fervently, the intensity of the kiss having the other groaning against his lips. He pulled the man to him, wanting to feel the warmth of his body against him, wanting to be as close with the other as possible, and it seemed that Punk wanted the same thing for he pressed his body against John's, hands now moving to cup his jaw as their lips met feverishly.

Air knocked out of his lungs, John pulled back but didn't dare open his eyes, afraid that if he did, everything would turn out to be a dream. Instead he pressed his forehead against the other as he panted softly on Punk's lips, breath taken away by the heated kiss. "I love you, too, Punk, and I'm sorry if I scared you with all of that, but I'm not going away, I promise—"

"Just shut up and kiss me, John."

Chuckling lightly and happily obliging, John leaned to capture Punk's lips in another searing kiss, which the other returned in enthusiasm, causing the elder to draw a deep breath through his nose, not wanting to end the kiss just yet. It felt so right, having Punk's lips on his, bodies pressed together as if both were afraid to let go. His fingers tangled through the other's hair, humming at the feeling of his soft locks, the disappointment of having only one arm dawning to him just now; seemed that holding the man wasn't enough for he needed him in his arms.

Eventually, the heated kiss slowly turned soft and gentle as both tried catching their breaths, lung screaming for the neglected air. But that didn't hold them back and they tried to recapture each other's lips as much and even as light as they could. Punk was clinging to John's neck, fingers treading through the blonde's locks, making John smile. He had no idea why, but there was no mistake. This all felt so right.

"What are you…" Punk whispered, still pecking softly at his lips. "What are you gonna do now after all this?"

John shook his head minutely, returning each kisses as much as he could. "I don't know… Maybe rest for a few days, take a couple weeks off—"

That made Punk pull back abruptly from him and John opened his eyes to find bright hazel eyes looking back at him in deep worry, face contorted in a soft expression of fear. "Oh god, please tell me you're coming back." And before John could comment about how adorable that looked for him, Punk was already hitting him on the chest repeatedly, making him stagger backward and flinch with every hit of his fist. "Don't you dare leave me you fucking bastard, tell me you're coming back!"

John couldn't help but laugh. "You told me you love me, and now you're calling me a fucking bastard?"

"Yes, you goddamn asshole," Punk answered, shoving his chest once more, but this time, leaving his hand on his hard frame. "You had me fucking worried sick. Thought you were going to leave me for good."

He had to admit, that made John sigh, realizing the mistake he had done. The expression on his face turned soft and he wrapped his good arm around Punk's shoulders, pulling him in a light, one-armed hug. "Told you before, I'm not leaving. I love the business too much. And the fans." He glanced at him with a soft chuckle as he added, "Especially you."

Cheeks suddenly flushing, Punk turned his gaze away from him, lifting a hand to the larger man's face and shoving him away lightly. "You're a fucking sap, Cena."

John let out a soft chuckle, taking hold of Punk's wrist and pushing his hand off his cheek. "You love me, though," he said with a cackle that made Punk blush even more.

"Don't get so cocky. I'm still wondering how that happened."

Unable to help it, John leaned forward and gently pressed his lips on Punk's forehead, smiling genuinely against his skin. "I'm coming back, I promise."

It took Punk a few moments before he moved to hide his face in John's neck, arms wrapping around his shoulders once more. "You better come back or I'm beating you up."

With a smile, John squeezed Punk in his arm in assurance, rubbing on his sleeve gently to comfort the other man, as if to say that everything was going to be fine. In return, he felt the other lean into him, his breath warm and gentle on his neck. It made John sigh in content. He felt like he had nothing to worry about, having Punk this close to him. He knew that it might be too sudden to say that he loved the man that much, but come to think of it, they had been friends for quite some time now. Maybe he had been in love with the man all along.

"Still mad at me?" He murmured after a while, his eyes closed as he relished the moment of being close with the other.

He felt Punk shake his head. "Not that much. But I'm still mad."

Shaking his head with a chuckle, John nodded and grinned to himself. "Don't worry. I'll do something about it."

And in fact he did do something about it, making it up to Punk by buying him a box of cupcakes and a pint of ice cream. The small gesture had the man rewarding him with a lift to the airport, and a soft kiss that he took home with him to Florida, along with a goofy smile and a fluttering heart.

This might be his best trip home yet.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Took me quite a while to update but here it is! People still read this fic, right? lol To those who do, thank you for your patience. I'm such a slacker sometimes Anyways, hope you guys enjoy reading and reviews are always welcome! ^_^

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><p>The trainer's words were loud and clear in his head, and Punk was sure that he had well understood what the guy had ordered him to do right after he was done tending the beat up champion's slightly abused arm and impaired sight. They were simple orders. Go back to his bus and get some rest. See? Even Punk could still recite it in his head, and he was certain that he could even imitate the way the medic gave him the simple set of instructions. But CM Punk was known for breaking the rules, despite his current face status in the company, and for many years he had been the most stubborn superstar known to have ever walked in and out of the trainer's room. At least the medics were now well educated about the fact that he didn't need any painkillers to suppress pain from concussions and sore muscles. He would rather go through with the actual pain than take said damned drug.<p>

Yep. Punk rock and straight-edge rolled into one.

So without regret, he took hold of his sports bag and put it onto his lap, handing the cab driver his payment for the fare, got out of the cab with a still slightly throbbing arm and a somehow blurry vision. But he couldn't be wrong with what he was seeing. He had told the driver to take him to the place, after all, and Punk would admit it was a pretty nice home. The night was cold and chilly and he had to hold his hoodie close to his body as he made his way to the front door, not much thought in his head as he walked the small distance from the sidewalk to the house. He wasn't even thinking about how the driver of his bus had reacted to his message about taking the week off. It was a stupid thing to do, knowing that he was the champion and he was supposed to be working his ass off, not slacking around and taking flights without a word to the management. But right this moment, he felt like doing something else entirely.

Hey, he was CM Punk. He was the champion. He could do anything.

Lifting a closed fist to the door – oh, look he was still wearing his wrist tape – he hit twice on the wooden surface, stepping back and looking around to survey the place. There was a garage at the left side of the house and another one to the other side. There was a driveway to his right and two somehow old but neat looking cars parked at the end. It made Punk chuckle to himself. Looked like he got the descriptions of the house quite accurately.

He could have wanted to walk around more and check the place out, but the lights from the window suddenly flicked open and the door swung inside. And then John was right in front of him, wearing a confused face that eventually turned surprised the moment he laid his eyes on the younger man standing at his door. Take Punk back in time, precisely around a year ago and he wouldn't even find himself at John Cena's doorstep. But here he was, a small smile spreading across his face as he looked back at the blue eyed man, heart fluttering inside his chest. God, what did this guy turn him into?

"H-Hey," John greeted, blinking at Punk in pleased surprise. "What are you doing here?"

_Oh, I don't know, I missed you and I wanted to see you? I heard you had your elbow drained twice today or some shit, how are you, I'm worried about you?_ Punk almost snorted at his thoughts. Holy crap, he did turn into a sap. It made him want to slap himself for thinking of such things, or maybe punch John in the face for turning him into a gooey, romantic schmuck, but he settled for, "Just wanted to see how you're doing."

John blinked more at that, fishing his phone out of his pocket and pressing a thumb on the screen. "It's two in the morning, Punk."

This time, Punk snorted, stuffing his better hand inside his pocket. "Yeah, meant to get here earlier, but I got stuck in the medical room to get my arm sorted out. The flight wasn't bad though. Least I didn't get stuck with crying babies—"

And right in the middle of his rambling nonsense, John suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder that somehow surprised the younger man, and next thing he knew, he was being dragged inside the large house, the sound of the door closing behind him hitting his ears and the feeling of a hand burning against the small of his back left on his skin as it led him to a spacious living room. He didn't even have the time to look around and admire the inside of John's home anymore, and he was already being sat down on the couch, his sports bag suddenly taken away from his grasp. Then without a word, John stepped out of the living room, leaving Punk sitting alone in front of a large TV set with some action, war flick playing on the screen.

Punk couldn't help but blink after the large man, all confused at the sudden move from the Cenation leader. It couldn't be that John was mad at him for the sudden visit, right? If he was, he would have slammed the door shut right in front of his face. Or perhaps John was too much of a boy scout to do such a thing? God, sometimes he just couldn't figure the man out.

Before he could think of a plausible reason as to why, however, John was already walking back into the room, holding a basin filled with water with his good hand. Placing it on the table, he dragged a chair closer and settled it right in front of Punk, sitting on it and reaching for the younger man's face, tilting his head up a bit, and then from left to right. Punk felt his cheeks heat up at the stare the man was giving him, but he wasn't going to let it show. Although with this close proximity, he was able to see how blue John's eyes really were. Those eyes that had captivated him to no end.

With a small sigh and a click of his tongue, John leaned away and turned on his seat to reach for the towel neatly placed on the basin, wringing the water out of the cloth and turning back to Punk, gently dabbing the damp fabric along his temple down to his cheek, then to the patch of skin just below his eyes. Punk felt his heart flutter at the affection, the blush growing deeper on his face, and he felt the urge to hide them with his hands. But instead, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his expression almost soft and almost filled with awe. He had to admit, no one had treated him this way. And it felt good. Especially when he was in the receiving end of John's attention.

"Are you always this doting?" He asked with a slight chuckle, not even trying to hold it back. The sight was just too adorable and too sweet that he felt a warm feeling spread inside his gut. Before him, he saw John's cheeks color into a deep shade of red, the dimples on his face slowly appearing as his lips curled in a smile of his own.

"Saw your match with Tensai tonight," he said, as if redirecting the course of their topic, hand still pressing the cloth against Punk's temple. "You know I've been through that before so I know how it hurts to get spit at right in your eye." With a small chuckle, he pulled back, leaning back slightly on his chair, nodding at the younger man all of a sudden. "How's your arm doing?"

That question actually caught Punk off guard and next thing he knew, he was laughing heartily, holding his stomach with his not-so-much throbbing arm, his head thrown back a bit as he laughed like he hadn't heard a good joke in a while. Come to think of it, he hadn't laughed like this in a very long time. What made it better was the confused expression on John's face, blinking slightly, probably figuring out what had caused the younger man's sudden laughter. Punk couldn't help but shake his head and let out a small breath. It was a purely precious sight, alright.

"I don't get it. What's so funny?"

Punk motioned to John's sling, still chuckling just a bit, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone once he finally recovered, his eyebrow raised in question. "John, your arm looks worse. I think I'm the one who's supposed to be asking of the same thing."

Another flush on John's cheeks was his answer and Punk fought the urge to laugh again, not wanting to let the other feel like he was just there to make fun of him. Although it was really entertaining to see the other like this, blushing and all, and if he had to be honest for once in his life, he would definitely want to see more of this from John.

The other seemed to have finally found his voice back after a few moments, cheeks still slightly pink as he somewhat let out a chuckle of his own, leaning back on his seat and placing the cloth on the edge of the basin as he spoke. "Can't really blame me. I'm almost always worried about you, anyway."

Rolling his eyes, Punk grabbed a pillow and threw it to John's direction, which the other man caught with his good arm, but Punk didn't care. The scowl on his face was evident as he spoke again. "I don't need your ass worrying about me, Cena. I can take care of myself very well."

"Sure." John leaned forward and pointed at Punk's bad arm, his tone and expression all serious by now. "You took care of it, alright. Look at what happened to you." And then, right before Punk was about to respond with an incredulous 'I beg your fucking pardon', John had started talking again, shaking his head slightly at the other. "You shouldn't have done that."

Punk stopped, let his mind rush back to the things he had done for the past twenty-four hours. Surely John wasn't talking about him getting into the ring with Tensai and Bryan, right? Of course not because it would be stupid of the boyscout to tell him that he shouldn't have gone to work. Feeling his eyebrow rise in question, Punk blinked at the larger man. "Done what exactly?"

Another sigh escaped John and to Punk, it sounded like the man was disappointed with him. It made his stomach churn a bit as nostalgia kicked in. He felt like he was in one of those 'talking sessions' he used to have with his father. In fact, it didn't have to be the 'talking sessions'. His father was always been disappointed with him anyway.

John scratched at his cheek, lifting his good shoulder up in a small shrug. "Being reckless and stupid, coming out to the ring to confront Laurinaitis like that."

"Wait just a minute there, Johnboy," Punk interrupted with a forced chuckle, raising his palm up at the other to stop him from talking. John's words seemed to have pulled him back from his thoughts, and this time he found himself frowning deeply at the other man. "Are you saying that I'm stupid for giving Big Johnny a mouthful because he was spouting bullshit about you?"

John sighed. Again. And it made Punk want to strangle something. And before he could even think of things that could take the man's place, John was speaking again, and Punk swore if it wasn't for the calm tone of his, he would have punched him since he let out a breath. "Punk, he is your boss, even if he's being the largest douchebag in the country. You shouldn't have charged in and put him down like that in front of the crowd—"

Oh, this time, Punk had had enough. What, so he was getting lectured for speaking up to their shitty, poor excuse of a boss? He found himself standing up on his own two feet, fists clenched at his sides and he wasn't even sure if he still _didn't_ want to hit John. "Oh, so you think what I did was wrong?" Punk took a deep breath, teeth clenched as he tried to keep his tone at level, not wanting to get angry just yet. "Then what do you think I should have done, huh? Stare at the monitor while I listen to him convincing the people that _he_ was the good guy, huh?"

This time, John huffed and it looked like he was losing his patience as well. Which was good for Punk because his temper had gone to the roof already. The Cenation leader stood up from his seat, a hint of impatience coloring his tone. "You should have waited before his stupid speech was over. If you haven't humiliated him like that in front of everyone, he wouldn't have put you up against Tensai and Daniel tonight as payback—"

"Seriously? Are you fucking serious right now, John?" Punk blurted out. His temper had already fucked off, alright. Really? No 'Thanks for that speech, Punk, that really warmed my heart. Oh, by the way, thanks for visiting me, how about a Pepsi?' that kind of stupid shit or however boyscouts thanked people for defending them? He took a step forward, almost getting into John's face. Nothing out of the ordinary in the ring, but seemingly an _almost_ common stuff when they were out of the squared circle. For heaven's fucking sake, he didn't come here to get a fucking lecture from this guy. "You can't expect me to stand right there behind the curtain while that goddamn prick talk shit about my friend on national TV—"

Okay, Punk might be one insensitive fucker but he knew it when he crossed the line. He stopped right when he realized what he just said and regretted it right that moment. Things with him and John weren't platonic anymore and he would admit, he forgot about that. But in his defense, they had not tried talking about it since they'd last seen each other. How could he remember something like that when he himself couldn't remember what he had for breakfast?

It seemed like hours for Punk when the silence fell, except for the sounds of the movie that was still playing on the screen. John had stopped in front of him as well, perhaps taken aback with his response. But then, John spoke, voice a bit dejected as he did so. "…That's what I am to you, huh?"

If Punk had to be honest, at this moment he could have taken anything. A punch to the gut – maybe not to the face; that was his investment even if he was convinced that looked ugly as hell – or maybe harsh words or cussing here and there. But the hollow chuckle that came out of John's throat was something that made his heart drop, especially that sad smile that crossed the man's face as he turned to walk away. Nice going, Punk, he thought to himself, almost mentally rolling his eyes at himself. _Your lack of impulse control will get you fucking everywhere._

"John…" The voice that came out of him was soft, almost unfamiliar and very much in contrast to the permanent sarcastic tone of his. But he didn't care as he reached out for the man's arm, his fingers curling lightly around the man's wrist. John was warm. It was nearly comforting. It reminded him of how warm the man was when he had him in his arms, when he had his lips on his. When he looked at the other again, he found those blue eyes looking at him, and he felt his heart racing in his ribs. He was going to fix this. He had to.

Taking in a deep breath, Punk chewed on his lip ring for a bit, thinking of the right words to say. But in the end he gave up, letting out the breath with a helpless sigh. "I'm sorry, alright?" He ran his free hand down his face, scratching at the stubble on his chin for a moment. "I didn't mean to…I'm just… I don't know. Maybe things are going too fast?" He gave him an uncertain chuckle, suddenly gripping on his wrist. "I'm not even sure what we are…"

And then there was silence. Again. But even if it made Punk feel uneasy, he stayed right where he was, standing there and feeling the burning stare from the older man. It made him feel conscious. And to think he was the guy who used to not give a single fuck about anything.

It seemed like forever but John finally moved to face him again, mouth opening to speak and Punk braced himself for anything that could possibly come out of his lips. What he heard, though, was something that he didn't expect.

"I filed for divorce last week."

Punk blinked. He thought that he'd heard him wrongly, but… "I'm sorry, what?"

John let out a breath, shrugging again but not pulling his wrist away from Punk's hold. "I filed for divorce from my wife. Well. Soon to be ex-wife, that is."

It took a short while but when it finally sank in, Punk found himself speechless. He actually forgot that John was a married man – hey, don't blame him, his wifey weren't around that much anyway. Not only that, he wasn't good with consoling people. What did you say to people who were getting a divorce? "Damn, John, I'm sorry…" And trust him; he tried to say something better than that. But then he started asking himself why John would get a divorce. He suddenly looked into John's eyes, slightly uncertain when he asked, "…is it because of us—"

Perhaps John had seen the question coming for he shook his head almost immediately. "Things haven't been going well with us for a long while now. Just saw the opportunity to file for one last week since I'm already home." Then he let out a hollow chuckle, shoulders sagging just a bit. "Aren't you wondering why I'm all alone in this house?"

The question hit Punk by surprise, making him ask the question to himself. How in the world did he not notice that John was all alone? It was a damn large house and he could have tried thinking of how many people could be staying inside. But John was here. Sitting all alone on his couch. Watching an old war flick just to entertain himself. With that arm in a sling, limiting him of the things that he normally did, like eat or shower or change his clothes. Just thinking of it all made Punk's heart sink inside. Who was taking care of John?

Punk let go of the man, taking a step back, his mind all set as he sat back on the couch again. If no one was going to watch over the big lug then he would willingly step up to the plate. "Guess it's just good timing that I stopped by for a visit, right?" He sat back on the cushions, placing his feet on the coffee table and crossing his ankle over the other, getting himself as comfortable as he could.

Watching him do this, John let out a hearty chuckle, something that sent a warm feeling inside his gut. And then the man was nodding, moving to settle on the space beside Punk. "Best timing, yeah."

They stayed like that for a while, with Punk keeping his eyes on the screen even if he had no clue what the army guys were doing in front of him except scream and shoot people with their Tommy guns. But the moment wasn't awkward; in fact, it was peaceful. Quiet. He could feel John's shoulder brushing against his when he moved but he didn't mind it at all. It was much better than sitting alone in his bus while watching old cartoons on his TV.

As the end credits finally started to roll, he lifted his arms and stretched up with a small groan, letting out a breath as he lowered his hands down again. Then he smiled at John, snickering just a little. "Thank god that's over. I got no idea what they were doing."

John chuckled at this, but didn't bother replying. Instead, he took Punk's hand with his, and the younger man's heart skipped a beat when he laced their fingers together. Just then he realized how close John was from where he was sitting. But just like before, he didn't mind it. Not one bit.

"Will you stay?"

Punk rolled his eyes at the question, his hand squeezing John's lightly, reassuringly. And then he leaned towards the other, planting a kiss onto his cheek, a light smile playing across his lips as he pulled back to look at John.

"You didn't even have to ask."


End file.
